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THE   NEW   DEMOCRACY 


A* 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NBW  YORK  •    BOSTON  -   CHICAGO 
SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


AN  ESSAY   ON   CERTAIN   POLITICAL   AND 

ECONOMIC   TENDENCIES   IN   THE 

UNITED   STATES 


BY 

WALTER  E.  WEYL,  Ph.D. 


Neto  gorfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1912 

All  rights  reserved 


JKjz 


4        C2  4-I&4& 


Copyright,  1912, 
By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  February,  1912. 


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Narfoaoo  $W8$$ 

J.  8.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  <fe  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
B.   P.   W. 


M126618 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


BOOK  I.  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  THE  PLUTOCRACY 

CHAPTER  .  PAGE 

I.  The  Disenchantment  of  America 1 

II.  The  Shadow-democracy  of  1776 7 

III.  The  Conquest  of  the  Continent 23 

IV.  The  Individualistic  Spirit  of  America     .        .        .        .36^ 
V.  The  Sovereign  American  and  his  State  ....      51X 

VI.  The  Plutocratic  Reorganization 64 

VII.  Our  Resplendent  Plutocracy 78* 

VIII.  The  Plutocracy  in  Politics 96 

IX.  The  Plutocracy  and  Public  Opinion         ....  121 

X.  Plutocracy  and  Efficiency 139 


BOOK  II.    THE  BEGINNINGS  OF  A  DEMOCRACY 

XL    The  New  Social  Spirit. 156 

XII.    Democracy  and  the  Class  War .  169 

XIII.  Democracy  and  the  Social  Surplus  ..*              .        .        .  191 

XIV.  The  Levels  of  Democratic  Striving          ....  '"'205* 
XV.    The  Gathering  Forces  of  the  Democracy       .        .        .  235 

XVI.     The  Tactics  of  the  Democracy 255 

vii 


Viii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

OHAPTEB  PAGB 

XVII.  The  Industrial  Program  of  the  Democracy        .        .  276 

XVIII.  The  Political  Program  of  the  Democracy  .        .        .  298 

/      XIX.  The  Social  Program  of  the  Democracy       .        .        .  320 

XX.    Can  a  Democracy  Endure? 348 

I  l 


THE   NEW   DEMOCEACY 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  DISENCHANTMENT  OF  AMERICA 

AMERICA  to-day  is  in  a  somber,  soul-questioning  mood. 
We  are  in  a  period  of  clamor,  of  bewilderment,  of  an 
almost  tremulous  unrest.  We  are  hastily  revising  all  our 
social  conceptions.  We  are  hastily  testing  all  our  political 
ideals.  We  are  profoundly  disenchanted  with  the  fruits  of  a 
century  of  independence. 

Our  visitors  from  Europe  in  the  early  days  of  independence 
were  obsessed  by  the  unique  significance  of  our  democracy. 
To  liberty  or  to  its  excesses  they  ascribed  all  American  quali- 
ties, customs,  and  accidents.  Our  native  apologists  laid  equal 
emphasis  upon  democracy.  In  half-ludicrous,  half-tragic 
orations,  they  acclaimed  the  rule  of  the  people  as  the  essence 
and  import  of  the  new  Republic.  America  was  to  be  the 
eternal  land  of  liberty,  the  refuge  of  the  world's  oppressed, 
the  mentor  of  Europe.  The  chosen  people  of  the  West  were 
to  teach  the  true  creed  of  democracy,  in  obedience  to  a 
divine  command,  as  explicit  as  that  laid  upon  the  ancient 
folk  of  Israel. 

Four  generations  have  passed  since  Cornwallis  surrendered 
at  Yorktown.  We  have  survived  the  early  days  of  poverty 
and  interstate  bickering.  We  have  grown  in  wealth,  power, 
and  prestige.  We  have  issued  triumphantly  from  a  great 
civil  war,  which  put  an  end  forever  to  chattel  slavery.  Our 
institutions  have  not  become  less  popular;  our  patriotism, 


2  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

though  less  fervid,  is  perhaps  deeper;  our  hope  of  equality 
is  not  quite  dead. 

Nevertheless,  to  millions  of  men  there  has  come  a  deep 
*>  and  bitter  disillusionment.  We  are  no  longer  the  sole  guard- 
ians of  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant.  Europe  does  not  learn 
at  our  feet  the  facile  lessons  of  democracy,  but  in  some 
respects  has  become  our  teacher.  Foreign  observers  describe 
our  institutions  with  a  galling  lack  of  enthusiasm,  and  vis- 
itors from  monarchical  lands  applaud  their  native  liberty, 
while  condoling  with  us  over  our  political  "  bosses,"  our 
railroad  "  kings/'  and  our  Senate  "  oligarchies.' '  A  swelling 
\  tide  of  native  criticism  overtops  each  foreign  detraction. 

The  shrill  political  cries  which  to-day  fill  the  air  are  in 
vivid  contrast  with  the  stately,  sounding  phrases  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  Men  speak  (with  an  exag- 
geration which  is  as  symptomatic  as  are  the  evils  it  describes) 
of  sensational  inequalities  of  wealth,  insane  extravagances, 
strident  ostentations ;  and,  in  the  same  breath,  of  vast,  boss- 
ridden  cities,  with  wretched  slums  peopled  by  all  the  world, 
with  pauperism,  vice,  crime,  insanity,  and  degeneration 
rampant.^/ We  disregard,  it  is  claimed,  the  lives  of  our 
workmen.  We  muster  women  into  dangerous  factories.  We 
enroll  in  our  industrial  army,  by  an  infinitely  cruel  conscrip- 
tion, the  anaemic  children  of  the  poor.  We  create  hosts  of 
unemployed  men,  whose  sullen  tramp  ominously  echoes 
through  the  streets  of  our  relentless  cities.^Daily  we  read  of 
the  premature  death  of  American  babies;  of  the  ravages 
of  consumption  and  other  "poor  men's  diseases";  of  the 
scrapping  of  aged  workingmen ;  of  the  jostling  of  blindly 
competing  races  in  factory  towns;  of  the  breakdown  of 
municipal  government ;  of  the  collusion  of  politicians,  petty 
thieves,  and  "  malefactors  of  great  wealth  ";  of  the  sharpen- 
ing of  an  irreconcilable  class  conflict;  of  the  spread  of  a 
hunger-born  degradation,  voicing  itself  in  unpunished  crimes 
of  violence  /  of  the  spread  of  a  social  vice,  due  in  numerous 


THE  DISENCHANTMENT  OF  AMERICA  3 

instances  (according  to  the  Committee  of  Fourteen)  not  to 
passion  or  to  corrupt  inclination,  but  to  "the  force  of  actual 
physical  want."  According  to  some  critics — among  whom 
are  conservative  men  with  a  statistical  bent  —  American 
democracy  is  in  process  of  decay. 

If  we  are  now  scourged  with  whips,  we  are,  it  is  claimed, 
soon  to  be  scourged  with  scorpions.  Our  evils,  if  uncorrected, 
must  grow  with  the  country's  growth.. '/If  in  a  century  we 
have  increased  from  seven  to  ninety  millions,  we  may  well 
increase,  in  the  coming  century,  to  two  or  three  hundreds 
of  millions.  In  the  lifetime  of  babes  already  born,  the 
United  States  may  be  a  Titanic  commonwealth  bestriding 
the  world;  a  nation  as  superior  in  power  to  England  or 
Germany  as  those  countries  are  to  Holland  or  Denmark/'It 
may  be  a  nation  spreading  northward  to  the  Polar  Seas, 
southward  to  the  Isthmus,  or  beyond,  and  westward  to 
Australia.  It  may  be  the  greatest  single  factor,  for  good  or 
evil,  in  the  destinies  of  the  world. 

It  is  this  very  vastness  of  our  future  that  gives  us  pause. 
It  is  because  in  America  we  are  about  to  play  the  game  of 
life  with  such  unprecedentedly  enormous  stakes  that  we  are 
at  last  taking  thought  of  the  fearful  chances  of  ill  skill  or  ill 
luck.  If  to-day  we  have  individual  fortunes  of  four  or  five 
hundreds  of  millions,  whereas  in  Washington's  day  we  had 
not  a  single  millionaire,  how  overwhelming  may  not  be  our 
fortunes  in  the  year  2000,  how  overbearing  may  not  be  the 
pressure  of  poverty  upon  our  hundreds  of  millions  of  citizens. 
Already  our  free  lands  are  gone,  our  cheap  food  is  in  danger. 
Soon  our  high  wages  may  be  threatened.  It  is  possible  to  con- 
ceive of  a  progressive  deterioration  accompanying  an  increase 
in  population.  We  have  no  guarantee  that  prosperity,  intel- 
ligence, discontent,  and  democracy  will  be  our  portion. 

To-day,  more  than  ever  before  in  American  history,  dire 
prophecies  gain  credence.  Some  foretell  the  dissolution  of 
the  Republic  and  the  rise  under  democratic  forms  of  an 


4  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

absolutist  empire,  of  a  malevolent  or  " benevolent  feudalism" 
of  business  princes.  Others  predict  a  day  of  "  civil  war, 
immense  bloodshed,  and  eventually  military  discipline  of 
the  severest  type."  Grave  men  hope  or  fear  a  sudden 
destructive  cataclysm,  in  which  the  ponderous  pillars  of 
our  society  will  fall  upon  a  blind  and  wretched  people. 
Revolutionary  and  reactionary  agitators  are  alike  disil- 
lusioned. They  no  longer  place  their  faith  upon  our  tra- 
ditional democracy. 

Even  the  mass  of  men,  —  that  experimental,  inventive, 
but  curiously  conservative  group  of  average  Americans,  — 
though  voting  instinctively,  is  beginning  to  feel  that  in  es- 
sential respects  the  nation  " conceived  in  liberty"  has  not 
borne  its  expected  fruits.  No  one  believes  after  this  cen- 
tury of  progress  that  the  children  of  America  are  endowed 
with  equal  opportunities  of  life,  health,  education,  and  fruc- 
tifying leisure,  nor  that  success  depends  solely  upon  individ- 
ual ^deserts.  The  " unalienable  rights"  have  not  availed 
against  unemployment  or  the  competition  of  the  stronger. 
Our  liberty  is  not  yet  absolute  nor  universally  beneficent; 
our  right  to  bear  arms,  our  right  to  trial  by  jury,  our  rights 
of  free  speech  and  free  assembly  have  been  sensibly  abridged. 
The  slums  are  here;  they  cannot  be  conjured  away  by 
any  spell  of  our  old  democracy.// Disenchanted  with  the 
glorious  large  promises  of  '76,  we  are  even,  like  our  early 
European  visitors^beginning  to  ascribe  all  evils  to  political 
institutions, /^nd  occasionally  the  unacknowledged  thought 
arises:  "  Is  democracy  after  all  a  failure  ?  Is  not  the  bureau- 
cratic efficiency  of  Prussia  as  good  as  the  democratic  laxness 
and  corruption  of  Pennsylvania  ?  A  Are  not  progress,  honesty, 
security  better  than  the  deceptive  '  unalienable  rights '  ? 
Does  democracy  pay  ?  7^  y 

It  is  in  this  moment  of  misgiving,  when  men  are  beginning 
to  doubt  the  all-efficiency  of  our  old-time  democracy,  that  a 
new  democracy  is  born.     It  is  a  new  spirit,  critical,  concrete, 

—  ■— v 


THE  DISENCHANTMENT   OF  AMERICA  5 

insurgent.  A  clear-eyed  discontent  is  abroad  in  the  land. 
There  is  a  low-voiced,  earnest  questioning.  There  is  a  not 
unreverential  breaking  of  the  tablets  of  tradition. 

It  is  not  merely  the  specific  insurgent  movement  in  Con- 
gress which  occupies  men's  minds.  That  is  but  a  symptom, 
but  one  of  a  hundred  symptoms,  of  a  far  broader,  subtler,  and 
more  general  movement  of  revolt.  Men  in  the  Middle  West, 
in  the  Far  West,  in  the  East  and  South ;  men  in  the  factory 
and  on  the  farm ;  men,  and  also  women,  —  are  looking  at 
America  with  new  eyes,  as  though  it  were  the  morning  of 
the  first  day.  They  are  using  old  words  in  strange,  new 
senses;  they  are  appealing  to  old  moralities  in  behalf  of 
strange,  new  doctrines.  It  is  not  all  "talk"  of  congressmen, 
for  the  man  who  is  represented  is  more  insurgent  than  the 
man  who  represents  him.  There  are  millions  of  insurgents 
who  have  never  been  to  Washington. 

The  new  spirit  is  not   yet   self-conscious, 
understand  its  own  implications,  its  own   alignments 
its  own  oppositions.     It  does  not  quite  know  whether  to 
look  backward  or  forward.     It  is  still  inchoate.     It  is  still 
negative. 

Protestantism,  too,  was  at  first  protesting,  insurgent, 
negative,  but  Protestantism  to-day  is  positive,  plenary,  and 
protested  against.  So  our  nascent,  insurgent,  still  unfolded 
democracy,  which  unites  many  men  in  a  common  hostility 
to  certain  broad  economic  and  political  developments,  is 
now  passing  over  to  a  definite  constructive  program.  It 
is  becoming  positive  through  force  and  circumscription  of 
its  own  negations.  "~"V 

As  it  becomes  positive  the  new  spirit  seeks  to  explain  it- 
self, and  in  so  doing  to  understand  itself.  It  seeks  to  test 
its  motives  and  ideals  in  their  relation  to  American  history 
and  conditions.  Is  our  new  democracy  merely  the  old  democ- 
racy in  a  new  coat  ?  Is  it  a  return  to  the  past  or  a  turning 
from  the  past  ?    Is  it  an  imported  creed  or  a  belief  of  native 


It  does  notV 
ignments,  GrV^ 


6  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

growth  ?  Is  it  a  high-hung  Utopia  or  an  attainable  end  ?  Is 
it  a  destruction,  or  a  fulfillment,  of  the  fundamental  law  of 
American  development?  Whence  does  it  come?  Whither 
does  it  lead  ?  What  is  it  and  what  is  it  to  be  ?  What  does 
it  mean,  for  better  or  worse,  to  the  common  run  of  us  ? 


CHAPTER    II 

/the   SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF   1776   // 

WHEN  the  course  of  events  is  not  to  our  liking,  and  we 
long  for  something  that  we  do  not  have,  our  most  in- 
stinctive argument  is  an  appeal  to  a  former  golden  age.  We 
claim  that  we  once  had  this  property,  this  right,  or  this  de- 
mocracy, which  in  later  evil  days  has  been  wrongfully  taken 
from  us. 

Applied  to  America,  this  method  of  thinking  presupposes 
an  earlier  era  of  native,  full-blown  democracy,  when  men 
were  free  and  equal,  with  universal,  uncontested  political 
and  civil  rights.     The  period  of  this  imagined  era  is  vaguely 
placed  at  the  dates  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and 
of  the  adoption  of  the  Federal  Constitution.     Filled  with  a~7 
zeal   for   historical   orthodoxy,    we   plead    vehemently   for/ 
the  restoration  of  our   one-time   equalities   and  freedoms.  \ 
Tacitly  we  assume  that  the  broad  and  responsible  democracy,  I 
for  which  we  are  now  striving,  once  existed.  ^— -* 

What,  however,  are  the  facts  ?  To  what  extent  were  the 
democratic  ideals  of  to-day  embodied  in  the  laws  of  a  cen- 
tury ago?  What  solutions  does  the  wisdom  of  our  ances- 
tors offer  to  the  perplexing  problems  of  their  descendants? 
What,  in  short,  was  our  original  heritage  of  democracy  and 
how  have  we  added  to  or  taken  from  it  ? 

At  the  time  of  the  Declaration,  as  during  the  preceding 
one  hundred  and  fifty  years,  there  existed  in  New  England, 
and  elsewhere  in  America,  a  certain  measure  of  self-rule. 
The  Puritans  were  by  no  means  ardent  democrats,  their 
government,  compounded  of  English  and  Hebrew  tradition, 
inclining  rather  to  theocracy.     The  democratic  spirit,  how- 

7 


8  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ever,  found  expression  in  the  town  meeting,  in  which  the 
good  citizens  came  together  to  build  the  road,  provide  for  the 
school,  and  pass  laws  against  scolds  and  Sabbath-breakers. 

It  was  a  primitive,  unrepresentative  democracy  in  a  group 
small,  simple,  and  homogeneous.  It  differed  widely  from 
the  larger  colonial,  and  later  from  the  State  and  national 
governments,  by  which  the  township  was  subsequently  to  be 
overshadowed.  It  was  a  democracy  of  poverty,  —  of  men 
of  small  means,  —  and  herein  also  it  differed  from  modern 
democracies  of  wealth,  in  which  enormous  fortunes  and  their 
getting  and  keeping  involve  the  clash  of  gigantic  interests. 

The  political  problems  of  the  formative  days  of  Hamilton 
and  Jefferson  cannot  be  likened  to  those  of  to-day.  Since 
Washington's  inauguration  our  population  has  increased 
twenty-three  fold  and  our  national  wealth  probably  over 
one  hundred  fold,  while  the  whole  structure  of  society  has 
been  metamorphosed  by  steam,  electricity,  railroad,  and 
telegraph.  When  we  realize  how  the  poor,  simple,  and  homo- 
geneous community  of  the  eighteenth  century  has  evolved  into 
our  present  wealthy,  complex,  and  differentiated  society, 
we  need  not  wonder  that  we  have  failed  to  inherit  spontane- 
ously the  supposed  democratic  Utopia  of  the  Declaration. 
A  perfect  democracy  conceived  in  1776  and  adapted  to  those 
days  would  not  have  fitted  comfortably  upon  the  men  of 
1911. 

In  reality  the  democracy  of  1776  was  by  no  means  perfect. 
The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  not  an  organic  law, 
but  an  appeal  —  a  very  special  and  adroit  appeal  —  to  the 
" natural  right"  of  revolution.  It  was  a  beautiful  ideal,  as 
wonderfully  poised  in  mid-air  as  is  to-day  the  golden  rule 
among  the  thrice-armed  nations  of  Europe.  The  average 
American  was  not  a  true  believer  in  its  doctrines.  The  "  bet- 
ter classes,"  tainted  with  an  interested  loyalty  to  King 
George,  could  not  abide  rebels,  petitioners,  and  "  agitators," 
and  among  the  signers  were  many  conservative  men  who 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776,  9 

feared  "too  much  democracy/'  though  they  saw  the  advan- 
tage of  issuing  a  "platform/'  and  of  hanging  together  to 
avoid  "hanging  separately." 

Although  a  revolt  against  despotism  swept  through  the 
land ;  although  the  new  State  constitutions,  conceived  in  the 
diluted  spirit  of  the  Declaration,  breathed  a  distrust  of  gov- 
ernors, legislators,  and  judges,  —  nevertheless  a  democracy, 
in  the  sense  of  our  present  hopes,  did  not  exist  in  the  emanci- 
pated colonies,  <  Of  the  "free  and  equal"  men  of  1776,  one 
sixth  were  chattel  slaves.  These  poor  blacks,  largely  native 
Americans,  were  speechless  and  voteless,  were  bought  and 
sold,  were  mortgaged  and  flogged.  Many  whites,  under 
the  names  redemptioners  and  indentured  servants,  were 
also  limited  in  their  civil  rights,  being  bound  to  service  and 
liable  to  harsh  and  cruel  treatment.  A  large  proportion  of 
adult,  white,  free  males  were  disfranchised.  iNew  Hampshire 
limited  the  suffrage  to  Protestant  taxpayers ;  South  Caro- 
lina, to  free  white  men,  believing  in  God,  Heaven,  and  Hell, 
with  a  freehold  of  fifty  acres,  or  a  town  lot,  or  who  had  paid 
a  considerable  tax.  In  Massachusetts,  Connecticut,  Mary- 
land, Virginia,  North  Carolina,  and  New  York  the  right  to 
vote  was  based  on  the  ownership  of  property  (usually  real 
estate)  or  upon  the  payment  of  equivalent  taxes.  In  New 
Jersey  no  one  could  vote  unless  possessed  of  real  estate  to 
the  value  of  fifty  pounds. 

The  qualifications  for  office  were  even  more  excluding. 
The  right  to  be  elected  to  the  Lower  House  was  usually 
denied  to  all  except  Christians  (or  Protestants)  of  means. 
In  Delaware  the  candidate  for  office  was  obliged  to  "profess 
faith  in  God  the  Father,  and  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  the  Holy 
Ghost,  one  God  blessed  evermore/'  and  to  "acknowledge 
the  Holy  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  to  be 
given  by  divine  inspiration."  1     In  South  Carolina  no  man 

1  See  John  Bach  McMaster,  "The  Acquisition  of  the  Political,  Social, 
and  Industrial  Rights  of  Man  in  America."     (Cleveland,  1903.) 


10  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

could  be  elected  to  the  Lower  House  unless  he  owned  five 
hundred  acres  and  ten  negro  slaves,  or  real  estate  worth  150 
pounds  sterling  and  clear  of  all  debt.  The  qualifications 
for  the  Upper  House,  and  especially  for  governor,  were  still 
higher.  A  governor  of  South  Carolina  had  to  be  possessed 
of  ten  thousand  pounds,  a  property  qualification  comparable 
with  that  of  a  million  dollars  or  more  for  the  present-day 
governors  of  New  York  or  Illinois.  Generally  speaking, 
none  but  a  rich  or  at  least  well-to-do  Christian  was  eligible 
to  the  office  of  governor. 

The  will  of  the  people,  aborted  by  a  restricted  suffrage, 
was  completely  nullified  by  the  " rotten  politics"  of  the  time. 
The  founders  of  the  Republic,  be  it  remembered,  were  not 
quiet  old  gentlemen  in  stocks,  living  honorable  and  pro- 
phetic lives  for  the  uplifting  of  us,  their  putative  descendants. 
They  were  a  very  human  lot  of  people  who,  liking  to  win, 
were  not  overnice  as  to  means.  "In  filibustering  and  gerry- 
mandering," writes  Professor  McMaster,  "in  stealing  gov- 
ernorships and  legislatures,  in  using  force  at  the  polls,  in  colo- 
nizing and  in  distributing  patronage  to  whom  patronage  is  due, 
in  all  the  frauds  and  tricks  that  go  to  make  up  the  worst  form 
of  practical  politics,  the  men  who  founded  our  State  and 
national  governments  were  always  our  equals,  and  often  our 
masters." 

By  such  devices  the  balance  of  power  under  the  Revolu- 
tionary constitutions  was  held  in  the  hands  of  the  "gentle- 
men," and  kept  away  from  those  whom  John  Adams  styled 
the  "simple-men."  /In  most  States  the  mass  of  the  people 
v/  were  compelled  to  accept  a  subordinate  position.  //Unrepre- 
sented by  government,  press,  or  public  opinion,  largely  illit- 
erate and  comparatively  isolated,  they  were  no  match  for 
the  able,  educated,  and  often  unscrupulous  gentlemen  who 
seized  political  power  and  the  fruits  and  spoils  thereof,  f 

Sharp  social  distinctions  remained.  What  equality  existed 
was  due  to  a  level  of  poverty,  a  uniform  hard  striving,  and 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF   1776  11 

a  most  unwelcome  simple  living.  On  the  Appalachian 
frontier  this  rude  equality  of  poor  men  was  most  clearly 
exemplified,  but  in  the  East,  where  were  the  " well-born" 
and  the  "  opulent,"  vestiges  of  aristocratic  gradations  lin- 
gered. The  line  between  the  scholarly  or  sporting  Virginia 
burgess  and  the  poor  white  of  his  district,  or  between  the 
Madeira-drinking  Dutch  landlord  of  Albany  and  his  neigh- 
boring shiftless  farmer,  was  as  sharp  as  that  to-day  between 
railroad  president  and  railroad  engineer.  You  could  not 
mistake  a  journeyman  shoemaker  for  his  Excellency  the 
Governor.  The  ill-clad,  ill-conditioned,  foul-mouthed  mobs 
of  the  little  cities  delighted  to  bespatter  mud  upon  the  small 
clothes  and  silver-buckled  shoes  of  the  gentleman,  who  re- 
sponded with  a  deep  scorn  for  the  " low-born"  rascals. 

Nor  did  the  economic  conditions  reflect  the  freedom  and 
equality  which  were  the  American's  inalienable  rights. 
True,  there  was  a  plenitude  of  cheap  land,  offering  itself  as 
an  alternative  to  wage  labor;  but  the  industrial  organization 
of  the  revolted  colonies  was  ineffective,  commerce  was  slow 
and  cautious,  and  the  rude  labor  of  even  a  hard-working 
farmer  produced  nothing  but  an  overabundant  supply  of 
simple  and  unvaried  food  and  clothing.  As  for  the  landless 
laborer,  he  toiled  from  sun  to  sun  for  a  wage  lower  than  that 
to-day  earned  by  a  newly  arrived  Hungarian  immigrant. 
Such  a  Revolutionary  toiler  could  not  be  sure  when  or  in 
what  form  his  wages  would  be  paid,  or  indeed,  whether  they 
would  be  paid  at  all ;  while,  if  he  fell  into  debt  for  a  few 
shillings,  he  might  be  cast  into  a  reeking,  vermin-infested 
jail,  to  fight  with  half-naked  male  and  female  prisoners  for 
the  retention  of  his  clothes. 

To  keep  the  poor  among  our  free  and  equal  forefathers  in 
their  place,  a  barbarous  criminal  law,  inherited  from  seven- 
teenth century  England,  was  invoked.  Not  only  was  im- 
prisonment for  debt  universal,  but  attacks  upon  property 
were  repelled  with  savage  severity.     In  Maryland  a  thief 


12  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

was  branded  with  a  T  on  his  left  hand,  and  the  rogue  or 
vagabond  —  the  unemployed  man  —  with  an  R  on  his 
shoulder.  The  sovereign  commonwealth  of  New  Hampshire 
branded  burglars  on  the  hand,  or,  if  the  crime  was  committed 
on  Sunday,  on  the  forehead;  while  in  Virginia  all  "deceitful 
bakers,  dishonest  cooks,  cheating  fishermen,  careless  fish 
dressers"  (all  of  them  " simple-men ' ')  were  ordered  to  lose 
their  ears.  In  Virginia  it  was  a  capital  crime  to  obtain  goods 
or  money  under  false  pretenses.  Branding,  whipping,  duck- 
ing, the  cropping  of  ears,  the  pillory,  and  the  stock  were  ordi- 
nary punishments  for  vulgar  rogues.  A  man  could  be  hanged 
in  Pennsylvania  in  1776  on  a  first  conviction  for  any  of 
twenty  crimes;  in  Virginia  twenty-seven  crimes  were  pun- 
ishable by  death.  The  law  fell  with  especial  severity  upon 
the  unrepresented,  voiceless,  and  often  uneducated  "simple- 
men/'  who  feared  the  debtor's  prison  as  they  feared  the 
omnipresent  pillory  and  lash,  or  the  cloth  P  which  the  un- 
fortunate pauper  and  his  wife  and  children  were  obliged  to 
wear  upon  the  sleeve.  Politically,  industrially,  socially, 
the  " simple-man' '  was  subordinate,  and  over  this  extremely 
imperfect  democracy  hung  the  black  cloud  of  an  aristocratic 
South,  with  its  preponderating  population  and  its  wealth 
based  upon  the  enforced  labor  of  benighted  negroes. 
//  America  in  1776  was  not  a  democracy.  It  was  not 
'even  a  democracy  on  paper.1  It  was  at  best  a  shadow- 
democracy.  // 

Nor  was  the  substance  of  democracy  conferred  by  the 
federal  Constitution.  If  our  modern  ideal  of  democracy 
does  not  lead  back  to  the  noble  eloquence  of  the  Declaration, 
still  less  does  it  revert   to  the  federal   Constitution,  as  it 

1  Of  democracies  on  paper,  Mexico  is  an  admirable  example.  Our 
sister  republic  imitates  the  forms,  rites,  and  solemn-farcical  pretenses  of 
democracy.  No  one,  by  merely  looking  at  her  unwinking  constitution, 
could  surmise  that  the  government  is  autocratic,  or  that  peon  slaves  toil 
on  the  sisal  grass  plantations  of  Yucatan.  The  American  Constitution, 
on  the  other  hand,  openly  and  unblushingly  avowed  slavery. 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776  13 

issued,  in  1787,  fresh  from  the  Philadelphia  Convention. 
Our  newer  democracy  demands,  not  that  the  people  forever 
conform  to  a  rigid,  hard-changing  Constitution,  but  that 
the  Constitution  change  to  conform  to  the  people.  The 
Constitution  of  the  United  States  is  the  political  wisdom  of 
dead  America. 

So  intimately  has  this  Constitution  been  bound  up  with 
our  dearest  national  ideals  and  with  our  very  sense  of  na- 
tional unity/so  many  have  been  the  gentle  traditions  which 
have  clustered  about  this  venerable  document^  that  one  hesi- 
tates to  apply  to  it  the  ordinary  canons  of  political  criticism. 
For  over  a  century  we  have  piously  exclaimed  that  our  Con- 
stitution is  the  last  and  noblest  expression  of  democracy. 
/But,  in^  truth,  the  Constitution  is  not  democratic.  It  was, 
in  intention,  and  is,  in  essence,  undemocratic.  It  was  con- 
ceived in  a  violent  distrust  of  the  common  people,  and  was 
dedicated  to  the  principle  that  "  the  minority  of  the  opulent" 
must  be  protected  from  American  sans-culottes. 

There  was  perhaps  some  excuse  for  a  reactionary  docu- 
ment. Things  were  in  a  bad  way.  Thirteen  free  and  very 
independent  States  were  issuing  paper  money  and  were  tax- 
ing each  other's  commerce.  The  central  government,  under 
the  Articles  of  Confederation,  maintained  a  precarious  and 
contemptible  existence.  The  domestic  debt  was  not  worth 
a  continental,  and  the  interest  on  the  foreign  debt  (which 
was  falling  due)  was  regularly  defaulted.  England  and 
Spain  were  hemming  in  the  disorganized  States  on  north, 
west,  and  south.  National  preservation  was  all-important, 
and  the  Constitution  paid  more  heed  to  this  problem  than 
to  the  " unalienable  rights"  of  men. 

Some  of  the  men  who  drew  up  the  instrument  frankly  pre- 
ferred a  king,  and  the  chief  spirit  of  them  all,  the  brilliant 
Alexander  Hamilton,  desired  a  life-elected  president  with  an 
absolute  veto  on  all  legislation,  appointing  governors  with 
absolute  vetoes  over  all  State  laws.     That  such  an  abhorrent 


\ 


14  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ideal  should  have  been  for  a  moment  entertained  indicates 
the  unlimited  contempt  in  which  the  greatest  political  leaders 
of  the  day  held  the  raw  and  vociferous  American  democracy. 

No  king  was  set  to  rule  over  America.  But  the  Constitu- 
tion, as  presented  by  the  Convention,  was  more  subtly  sub- 
versive of  the  popular  interest  than  might  have  been  a  dozen 
Georges.  The  House  of  Representatives  was  conceived  to 
be  the  sole  popular  branch  of  the  new  government,  but  even 
in  the  choice  of  this  body  no  provision  was  made  for  an  ex- 
tension of  the  then  restricted  suffrage.  The  senators,  indi- 
rectly elected  for  long  terms  and  without  reference  to  the 
population  of  their  districts,  were  legislators  likely  to  be 
largely  free  from  popular  control.  The  power  and  dignity 
of  the  Senate  were  correspondingly  augmented.  The  Presi- 
dent by  his  indirect  election  (for  it  was  not  anticipated  that 
presidential  electors  would  accept  instructions)  was  thought 
to  be  even  farther  removed  from  the  unstable  and  easily  be- 
guiled people,  and  the  Chief  Executive  was  accordingly 
granted  a  qualified  veto  on  Congress  and  enormous  powers 
in  peace  and  war. 

All  these  checks  upon  a  supposedly  democratic  House 
were  reenforced  by  what  in  practice  is  an  absolute  veto  in- 
hering in  the  Supreme  Court.  This  veto  was  intended  to 
enable  a  small  body  of  jurists,  non-elected,  but  appointed 
for  life  by  an  indirectly  elected  President  and  an  indirectly 
elected  Senate,  to  set  aside  through  a  nullifying  interpreta- 
tion or  upon  the  ground  of  unconstitutionality  any  federal 
law,  approved  by  any  majority,  as  well  as  any  State  law  or 
State  constitution.  The  supposedly  undemocratic  federal 
government  was  thus  to  be  protected  from  ebullitions  of  the 
democratic  spirit  in  the  States  and  the  United  States. 

Finally  the  altering  of  the  Constitution  was  surrounded 
with  almost  insuperable  difficulties,  so  that  to-day  less  than 
one  fortieth  of  the  voters  could  conceivably  frustrate  the 
wish  for  amendment  of  thirty-nine  fortieths.      This  threw 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776  15 

the  real  power  of  amendment  into  the  hands  of  the  interpret- 
ing body,  the  same  Supreme  Court,  intended  by  its  composi- 
tion and  the  manner  of  choice  and  the  life  tenure  of  its 
members  to  be  the  most  remote  of  all  governmental  agencies 
from  the  operation  of  popular  control.  Popular  rights  were 
presumably,  for  all  time,  bottled  up. 

The  greatest  merit  —  and  the  greatest  defect  —  of  the 
Constitution  is  that  it  has  survived.  It  might  be  well  if 
the  ^American  people  would  recast  their  Constitution  every 
generation.1  We  would  assuredly  do  better  in  1911  with  a 
twentieth  century  organic  law  than  with  an  almost  unchange- 
able constitution,  which  antedated  the  railroad,  the  steam- 
boat, and  the  French  Revolution,  and  was  contemporary 
with  George  the  Third,  Marie  Antoinette,  and  flintlock  mus- 
kets. In  the  early  days,  however,  when  the  States  were  jeal- 
ous, exigent,  and  eternally  overvigilant,  any  bond  of  union, 
if  only  strong  enough,  was  good.  M)ur  eighteenth  century 
Constitution  was  a  marvel  of  judicious  compromises  and 
wise  evasions,  and  its  ratification  was  a  long  step  forward 
towards  political  autonomy.  // 

This  ratification  was  not  a  popular  one,  for  the  Constitu- 
tion was  never  fairly  presented  for  adoption  to  the  people, 
but  was  accepted  by  a  small  minority  during  a  reactionary 
year  in  a  fear  of  foreign  aggression  and  domestic  anarchy. 
Even  many  who  voted  for  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution 
were  opposed  to  its  principles,  but  by  cajolery,  logrolling, 
and  questionable  tactics  the  ratification  was  finally  secured. 
The  far-seeing  leaders  recognized  that  the  Constitution  was 
necessary.  With  a  sop  therefore  to  a  jealous  people  in  the 
form  of  the  first  ten  amendments,  guaranteeing  civil  and 
political  rights,  the  dominating,  intelligent  minority  of 
Americans  decided  to  go  ahead. 

1  Jefferson,  who  believed  that  each  generation  has  a  right  to  formulate 
its  own  organic  law,  advocated  a  policy  of  revising  constitutions  every 
nineteen  years.  In  this  way  "the  consent  of  the  governed"  could  be 
periodically  obtained. 


[6     J  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

iat  the  Constitution  has  worked  so  well  and  compara- 
tively so  democratically  is  due,  less  to  its  intrinsic  merits,  or 
to  the  genius  of  Hamilton  and  Madison,  than  to  the  modera- 
tion and  political  tolerance  of  succeeding  generations  of 
Americans,  and  to  a  subsequent  rising  tide  of  democracy 
which  has  liberalized  our  organic  law,  overborne  it,  or  evaded 
The  almost  direct  election  of  the  President,  the  enor- 
mous influence  of  political  parties  and  of  public  opinion,  the 
widening  of  the  suffrage,  the  increasingly  direct  election  of  sen- 
ators, are  democratic  features  which  were  unpredicted,  and 
would  have  been  undesired,  by  the  authors  of  the  document. 
The  new  government  based  upon  the  Constitution  fell 
into  the  hands  of  the  conservative  class.  By  1789  thousands 
of  wealthy  loyalists,  who  had  fled  in  1775,  were  reinstated 
in  public  esteem,  and  these  men,  as  well  as  other  "leading 
citizens,' '  had  scant  sympathy  for  democratic  vagaries  and 
demagogic  vaporings.  The  Federalists,  who  had  made  them- 
selves responsible  for  the  Constitution,  realized  that  the 
efficiency  of  a  political  instrument  depends  upon  the  minds 
which  interpret  and  the  hands  which  administer  it.  It  was 
in  this  spirit  that  they  secured  control  of  the  new  govern- 
ment. The  formative  American  government  thus  came  to 
be  marked  with  the  stamp  of  Hamilton,  Adams,  and,  later, 
of  John  Marshall,  men  who  had  faith  in  the  union  of  the 
States,  but  not  in  the  people  who  formed  their  citizenry. 
These  leaders  recognized  that  it  was  necessary  to  attach  to 
the  nascent  federal  government  the  interested  loyalty  of  the 
moneyed  classes,  which  was  done  through  the  levying  of  a 
mildly  protective  tariff,  the  creation  of  a  national  bank, 
and  the  assumption  of  the  State  debts.  Through  the 
strengthening  and  astute  manning  of  the  Supreme  Court, 
they  created  checks  upon  the  people  and  upon  the  State 
governments,  while  they  wisely  held  aloof  from  the  embraces 
of  revolutionary  France  and  tried  to  repress  internal  dis- 
affection by  the  ill-advised  Alien  and  Sedition  Laws. 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776  17 

The  democratic  spirit,  however,  was  growing.  A  few 
months  after  the  inauguration  of  President  Washington, 
a  Parisian  crowd  stormed  the  Bastille,  and  the  great 
French  Revolution  was  launched.  When  Citizen  Genet 
arrived  in  America,  he  found  many  thousands  sympa- 
thetic to  the  new  democratic  doctrines.  The  Declaration 
of  Independence  was  also  bearing  fruit.  Suffrage  was  being 
extended  in  the  several  States;  property  and  religious  quali- 
fications were  being  lessened  or  removed ;  the  limitation  of 
officeholding  to  men  of  wealth  was  made  less  stringent; 
and  the  penal  law  and  the  conduct  of  prisons  were  somewhat 
humanized.  In  1800,  the  "  Jacobin"  and  " leveller,"  Thomas 
Jefferson,  was  elected  President,  and  by  1814,  after  the  dis- 
astrous Hartford  Convention,  the  influence  of  the  Federal 
party  was  forever  gone. 

During  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  the  prog- 
ress away  from  the  evil  old  conditions  was  even  more  rapid. 
The  little  cities  were  growing,  and  the  citizens,  especially  the 
Journeymen  workingmen  who  were  forming  unions,  had  no 
respect  for  suffrage  qualifications  based  on  the  ownership  of 
farms.  The  city  poor  were  asking  for  public  —  not  pauper 
—  schools,  for  the  right  to  strike,  for  the  cessation  of  special 
privileges,  for  a  mechanic's  lien  law,  and  for  that  most  revo- 
lutionary of  all  programs,  the  abolition  of  imprisonment  for 
debt. 

On  the  westward-moving  border  of  the  States,  also,  a  new 
and  iconoclastic  spirit,  born  of  the  wilderness,  began  to 
arise.  In  the  conflict  with  nature  all  strong  men  were 
equal;  to  pass  the  Appalachians,  a  social  convention  had 
needs  be  hardy.  The  pioneer,  who  blazed  a  trail  through 
the  primitive  forest,  who  fought  with  Hull  at  Detroit  or 
Jackson  at  New  Orleans,  who  drank  "hard  cider"  with 
Tippecanoe,  had  no  remembrance  of  pre-Revolutionary 
gentlemen  and  no  respect  for  the  old-fashioned  school  of 
statesmen. 


te 


/ 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  wave  of  a  new  democracy  —  intensely  individualistic, 

\  intensely  confident,  aggressive,  dogmatic  —  passed  east 
over  the  mountains  from  Michigan,  Ohio,  and  Tennessee 
into  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  and  Virginia.  The  new 
crude  democratic  movement,  fed  on  a  number  of  social  and 
political  reforms,  culminated  in  the  electoral  victory  of 
1828.  Jackson  was  made  President,  a  democratic  ideal  was 
fixed  upon^Snerica,  political  traditions  were  unsettled,  and 
the  door  was  opened  to  all  manner  of  revolutionary  changes, 
good  and  bad. 

Witt  the  inauguration  of  this  popular  hero  in  1829  began 
the  spoils  system,  the  short  tenure  of  office,  the  popular  boss, 
and  the  fresh  and  wholesale  corruption  of  parties.  The  suf- 
frage was  still  further  extended  and  the  congressional  caucus 
which  had  formerly  nominated  presidential  candidates  gave 
way  to  the  theoretically  more  democratic,  but  in  prac- 
tice equally  unrepresentative,  national  convention.  The 
prayers  to  the  " gentleman"  leaders  of  public  opinion  died 
away,  and  louder  appeals  were  made  to  the  unquestioned 
sovereignty  of  an  imperious  people.  Industrial  and  social 
changes  also  took  place.  The  opportunities  of  workingmen 
were  widened,  and  their  rights  were  affirmed  and  defended. 
A  wave  of  educational  reform  along  democratic  lines  swept 
over  the  country,  and  abuses  of  many  kinds,  grown  old  in 
America  or  torn  from  feudal  settings  in  Europe,  were  at- 
tacked and  abolished.  The  people  were  supreme.  A  tur- 
bulent army  of  camp  followers  and  spoilsmen  accompanied 
Jackson  in  his  invasion  of  Washington.  Democracy  was 
attained. 

It  was  a  crude  nation  which  believed  that  it  had  attained 
democracy,  a  nation  still  poor,  but  little  instructed,  with  raw 
impulses  which  might  lead  it  anywhere.  It  was  a  dispersed, 
atomic  nation;  a  nation  of  " queer/  inquisitive  folk;  a 
nation  boasting  of  the  armor  it  was  to  put  on.  It  was  a 
nation  loudly  protesting  against  all  artificial  distinctions; 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776  19 

a  nation  in  which  the  servant  was  the  respected  and  con- 
descending "help,"  and  the  policeman,  letter  carrier,  and 
stagedriver  equal  and  aggressive  citizens,  proudly  refusing 
to  wear  uniforms  or  other  badges  of  servitude.  It  was  a 
nation  in  which  the  doctor  or  lawyer  cultivated  his  farm, 
and  the  factory  girl  might  play  the  piano  and  write  for  a 
magazine.  It  was  a  nation  hopefully  anticipating  the  immi- 
nent downfall  of  the  monarchs  of  "effete  Europe"  ;  a  nation 
devoutly  confident  that  the  ultimate  sanction  of  Divine 
Providence  had  been  uniquely  reserved  for  the  ideally  per- 
fect American  Commonwealth.  It  was  a  nation  shamed 
by  filthy  prisons,  barbarous  penal  laws,  imprisonment  for 
debt,  and  ill-kept  cities.  It  was  a  nation  cursed  with 
slavery. 

The  evil,  like  the  good,  of  the  Jacksonian  era  is  still  with 
us,  and  only  slowly  are  we  freeing  our  larger,  newer  democ- 
racy from  the  trammels  placed  upon  it  by  the  raw,  crude 
democratic  movement  of  that  day.  But  with  all  its  defects, 
the  democracy  of  the  America  of  1829  was  far  in  advance  of 
that  of  the  contemporaneous  world.  Europe  was  still  lying 
in  the  slough  of  reaction,  following  the  Revolution  and 
Napoleon.  In  England  George  the  Fourth  ruled  a  slum- 
bering nation,  Catholic  Emancipation  was  just  being  granted, 
the  Reform  Bill  had  not  been  passed,  the  "rotten  boroughs" 
sent  up  their  members  to  an  aristocratic  Parliament,  and 
the  hand  of  a  noble  class  lay  heavy  upon  the  land.  In  France 
the  Revolution  of  1830,  which  was  to  turn  over  the  nation 
from  the  Bourbon  Charles  X  to  the  bourgeois  monarch 
Louis  Philippe,  had  not  yet  occurred.  Prussia,  Austria, 
Russia,  Spain,  were  in  the  grasp  of  absolutist  regimes.  The 
world's  hope  of  democracy  seemed  to  lie  to  the  west  of  the 
ocean. 

Two  years  later,  Alexis  de  Tocqueville,  the  philosophic 
student  of  popular  government,  conceived  this  land  as  "the 
most  democratic  country  on  the  face  of  the  earth."    In 


20  )  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

"America  the  people  had  a  sure  foot  on  the  ladder  of  freedom. 
Again  and  again  De  Tocqueville  speaks  of  our  equality  of 
political  rights,  of  property,  of  education,  of  opportunity. 
Often  he  speaks  of  the  unquestioned  sovereignty  of  the 
people,  of  the  exclusion  or  voluntary  retirement  of  aristo- 
crats. The  inevitable  rule  of  the  masses,  which  De  Tocque- 
ville everywhere  foresaw,  was  to  be  studied  in  the  towns 
of  New  England,  on  the  frontier  of  Illinois,  in  the  halls  of 
Congress.  The  most  youthful  nation  would  teach  its  elders 
the  lessons  of  popular  government.  A  child  would  lead 
them. 

To-day  the  tables  are  turned.  America  no  longer  teaches 
democracy  to  an  expectant  world,  but  herself  goes  to  school 
to  Europe  and  Australia.  Our  ballot  laws  come  from  a  na- 
tion younger  than  ourselves;  our  students  of  political  and 
industrial  democracy  repair  to  the  antipodes,  to  England, 
Belgium,  France,  to  semi-feudal  Germany.  Politically,  as 
otherwise,  we  have  made  progress,  but  we  are  no  longer  so 
supremely  confident  that  the  men  of  1787  could  adequately 
foresee  and  rightly  predestine  the  lives  of  the  men  of  1911. 
We  are  beset  by  bewildering  new  problems ;  by  portentous, 
unexpected  versions  of  old  problems ;  by  stubborn,  staring 
facts,  irreconcilable  with  our  old  optimism;  by  evil,  in- 
credible conditions,  the  impossible  offspring  of  our  early 
hopes.  Where  we  have  planted  the  good,  the  ill  has  sprung 
up;  where  we  have  striven  for  equality,  we  have  achieved 
inequality. 

Why  have  the  promises  of  the  rash  young  democracy  of 
\l829  remained  unfulfilled?     Why  has  the  tortoise  Europe 
outdistanced  the  hare?/ 

I   There  are  several  reasons.     First,  we  believed  that  we 
^already  had  democracy.     To  the  early  Americans,  democ- 
"*  /racy  was  something  negative,  an  absence  of  kings,  of  nobles, 
of  political  oppression,  of  taxation  without  representation. 
It  was  something  which,  having,  they  need  not  worry  about, 


THE  SHADOW-DEMOCRACY  OF  1776 

like  their  wives,  whom  they  loved   but  no  longer  courted. 
It  was   an    individualistic  democracy  —  not    a    democracy 
adapted  to  the  steam  engine,  the  big  factory,  the  great  city 
and  the  social  relations  corresponding  to  a  complex,  closely    / 
knit  industrial  system. 

A  second  reason  was  slavery.  From  1787  slavery  was 
an  acute  national  problem;  from  1820  to  1863  it  was  the 
problem  of  America.  To  have  attained  a  plenary,  socialized 
democracy,  we  should  have  been  obliged  to  turn  all  our 
national  thought  upon  the  problems  of  the  distribution  of 
wealth,  the  effectuation  of  the  popular  will  in  government, 
and  the  creation  of  a  national  intelligence  and  a  national 
will  to  cope  with  these  problems.  Such  a  concentration  of 
our  national  thought  was  impossible  during  the  slavery 
struggle.  The  South  fought  desperately  in  Congress  and, 
later,  on  the  field  of  battle  for  the  maintenance  and  exten- 
sion of  its  peculiar  institution,  as  a  man  fights  for  a  drug  to 
which  he  has  become  subject.  The  most  democratic  nation 
in  the  world  was  distraught  over  the  question  of  the  exten- 
sion of  slavery  at  a  time  when  the  politically  less  advanced 
nations  of  western  Europe  were  agreed  that  slavery  and 
even  serfdom  were  immoral,  uneconomical,  and  obsolete. 

A  still  more  formidable  obstacle  lay  between  America  and 
the  democracy  to  which  we  to-day  aspire.     In  the  early 
thirties,  when  De  Tocqueville  was  studying  our  institutions 
so  sympathetically,  America  stood  at  the  parting  of  the 
ways.     She  had  to  choose  between  the  attainment  and  mocPv 
ern  adaptation  of  the  rights  of  men  and  the  conquest  of  the  \ 
continent;     between    immediate    democracy    and    material 
progress;    between  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and/ 
"  manifest  destiny." 

It  was  not  a  conscious  choice;  few  determinations  of 
great  masses  of  men  are.  It  was  rather  a  blind  inclining  to 
a  great  task,  a  blind  fulfillment  of  the  supreme  need  of  the 
epoch.    Unless  the  continent  were  subjugated  by  the  na- 


22    /  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


tion;  unless  the  far  distant  corners  of  the  Republic  were 
united  by  road  and  canal,  by  railroad  and  telegraph;  unless 
men  and  goods  could  pass  freely  from  Atlantic  to  Pacific 
and  from  Rio  Grande  to  Lakes  Superior  and  Michigan ;  unless 
America  were  united,  cemented,  and  fused,  —  the  Republic 
and  all  its  idols  would  perish.  Theoretically  America  might 
have  abjured  Louisiana,  foregone  Florida,  refrained  from 
the  Mexican  foray,  and  stayed  at  home  and  developed  her 
democracy.  Actually  she  was  forced  outward.//  The  press- 
ing need  of  America  was  not  liberty,  equality,  arid  fraternity, 
nor  yet  a  perfected  and  socialized  democracy,  but  the  con- 
quest of  the  continent,  the  fashioning  of  a  man  to  conquer 
it,  and  the  creation  of  a  state  which  would  aid,  or  at  least 
not  hinder,  the  conquest//  The  subjugation  of  this  continent 
from  the  Appalachians  td  the  American  Desert,  and  beyond, 
and  the  search  for  the  wealth  which  was  its  embodiment, 
must  set  its  stamp  upon  the  acquisitive,  imaginative,  and 
starkly  individualistic  American ;  it  must  set  its  stamp  upon 
the  feeble,  faltering,  starkly  individualistic  state.  The  na- 
tion was  compelled  to  develop  along  lines  hostile  to  the  high- 
est political  evolution.  It  was  compelled  to  sacrifice  a  large 
measure  of  immediate  progress  in  democracy  in  order  that 
the  material  substratum  might  be  provided  upon  which 
eventually  a  fuller,  deeper,  nation-wide  democracy  could  be 

/reared.  It  was  perhaps  a  way  about  —  an  instinctive  detour. 
Thus  it  came  about  that  America,  in  1831  the  leader  in 
democracy,  gave  up  its  leadership  to  attempt  another  task. 
The  immediate  task  before  America,  the  frontiersman  oi 
civilization,  was  not  democracy,  but  the  Conquest  of  the 
^  \  JContinent. 


w 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT 

THE  conquest  of  the  wide-stretching  continent  lying 
to  the  west  of  the  Appalachians,  gave  to  American 
development  a  tendency  adverse  from  the  evolution  of  J 
a  socialized  democracy.  It  made  America  atomic.  Its/ 
led  automatically  to  a  loose  political  coherence  and  to  a 
structureless  economic  system.  The  trust,  the  hundred- 
millionaire,  and  the  slum  were  latent  in  the  land  which  the 
American  people  in  their  first  century  of  freedom  were  to 
subjugate. 

That  land  was  one  of  the  most  magnificent  portions  of 
a  fertile  world.  The  immense  domain  stretched  from  Appa- 
lachians to  Pacific,  with  broad,  deep  rivers,  with  a  chain 
of  fresh-water  lakes  unique  in  the  world,  and  with  ex- 
haustless  supplies  of  water  power.  The  varied  climate 
was  adapted  to  all  the  purposes  of  civilization;  the  soil 
was  fertile  beyond  the  experience  of  European  cultivators. 
A  million  square  miles  of  forest,  with  treasures  of  pine, 
oak,  hickory,  and  ash,  stretched  like  a  shoreless  sea  before 
the  eyes  of  the  early  settlers.  In  those  forests  and  on  the 
plains  beyond  were  numberless  deer,  buffalo,  mountain 
sheep,  and  fur-bearing  animals,  while  overhead  passed 
clouds  of  pigeons,  turkeys,  geese,  and  quail ;  and  in  the  seas, 
lakes,  and  rivers  were  myriads  of  edible  fishes.  Land, 
sea  and  sky,  forest  and  prairie,  offered  seemingly  exhaust- 
less  supplies  to  the  scattered  millions  of  early  Americans. 

Beneath  the  deserts  of  forest  and  prairie  lay  an  equal 
bounty.  There  were  hundreds  of  thousands  of  square 
miles  of  deposits  of  coal  and  iron.     In  gold,  silver,  lead, 

23 


24  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

zinc,  in  building  stone,  phosphates,  and  salt,  in  many  other 
minerals  and  metals,  the  country  abounded.  These  buried 
treasures  were  not  for  the  unseeing  eyes  of  the  first  gener- 
ations. It  was  the  forest  which  fed  and  warmed  and  housed 
them,  which  sheltered  them  from  the  Indians,  and  held 
out  its  constant  lure. 

In  grandeur  the  march  of  the  pioneers  into  the  preg- 
nant forest  compares  with  those  multitudinous  outpour- 
ings of  northern  Barbarians  which  overturned  Rome. 
The  movement  was  peaceful,  continuous,  resistless.  Wher- 
ever the  pioneer  pressed,  boundaries  gave  way.  Napoleon 
sold  a  magnificent  empire  to  the  young  Republic,  and  vast 
territories  were  stolen  from  feeble  and  distracted  Mexico. 
Not  until  it  reached  the  impassable  ocean  did  the  west- 
ward movement  stop.  To-day  the  peaceful  conquest 
moves  northwest  into  the  wheat  lands  of  Saskatchewan. 
It  is  all  the  same  process,  the  overflow  of  a  vigorous,  fertile 
race  into  an  empty,  fertile  land. 

It  was  this  emptiness  of  the  wide  land  which  impressed 
upon  the  new  nation  its  essentially  industrial  character. 
Spain  became  martial  through  eight  centuries  of  warfare 
against  the  Moors ;  the  ancient  Jews  became  militant 
because,  to  win  the  Promised  Land,  they  were  forced  to 
slay  root  and  branch.  To  the  Americans  such  warlike 
qualities  were  not  essential.  A  few  hundred  thousand 
Indians  could  not  withstand  the  prolific  invaders.  The 
aborigines  were  not  so  much  conquered  as  overawed.  They 
were  literally  crowded  out  by  men  who,  themselves  waste- 
ful, yet  made  a  better  use  of  the  land.  The  plow,  not 
the  rifle,  vanquished  the  Indian. 

We  must  pause  to  survey  this  conquest  of  the  continent 
because  it  has  entrained  a  series  of  developments  which 
still  vitally  affect  American  life.  To-day  we  cannot  tear 
down  a  slum,  regulate  a  corporation,  or  establish  a  national 
educational  system,   we    cannot    attack  either    industrial 


tl k 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT 

oligarchy  or  political  corruption,  without  coming  into  con- 
tact with  the  economic,  political,  and  psychological  after 
effects  of  the  conquest.  What  our  land  is,  what  our  state 
is,  what  we  are,  our  present  problems  and  our  present  hopes, 
are  largely  traceable  to  the  hasty  occupation  of  the  con- 
tinent, and  to  the  rapid  material  development  of  the  nation 
which  the  conquest  visualized. 

What  was  the  impelling  cause  of  this  vast,  harmonious 
movement?  What  inspired  the  men  who  built  the  new 
West? 

It  is  naive  to  believe  that  all  these  men  were  inspired  by 
a  concerted  desire  to  work  out  a  national  destiny.  Their 
motive  was  more  personal.  Nor  may  we  ascribe  the  move- 
ment to  a  disinterested  love  of  adventure.  Adventure  means 
money.  Ordinary  men  do  not  break  home  ties,  go  forth  into  a 
trackless  wild  or  into  a  new,  crude  community,  do  not  put 
their  lives,  still  less  their  permanent  comfort,  to  the  touch 
without  hope  of  money,  gold,  farms,  a  free  economic  life. 
The  exceptions  do  not  disprove  the  rule.  The  great  mi 
grations  of  history  have  been  economic. 

In  the  business,  labor,  and  property  conditions  of  the  East 
of  America,  as  in  the  unparalleled  offerings  of  the  West, 
we  must  seek  the  cause  of  the  Western  movement.  It 
might  seem  that  the  vast  territory  east  of  the  Appala- 
chians should  have  sufficed  for  the  needs  of  its  sparse  popu- 
lations. In  1790  there  were  far  fewer  people  in  all  the 
United  States  than  in  New  York  City  to-day;  in  1820 
the  whole  population,  white,  red,  and  black,  on  both  sides 
of  the  mountains  was  but  little  greater  than  the  present 
population  of  New  York  State.  Had  the  early  Americans 
been  engaged  in  manufacturing,  commerce,  and  intensive 
agriculture,  there  would  have  been  little  apparent  incentive 
to  a  westward  migration. 

Such  were  not  the  conditions.  By  an  adverse  policy  of 
the  British  government,  manufacturing  had  been  restricted 


26  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

during  the  colonial  period,  and  after  1815  it  was  again 
injured  by  the  competition  of  the  better  equipped  Eng- 
lish factories.  Farming,  in  America,  even  according  to  the 
then  European  standards,  was  superficial  and  ineffectual. 
The  tools  were  rude;  the  plow  was  essentially  that  which 
Herodotus  had  seen  in  Egypt.  The  farmers  were  neither 
ambitious  nor  scientific.  The  one-crop  system  prevailed, 
fertilizers  were  unused,  and  the  land  was  subjected  to  the 
most  exhausting  tillage.  An  ineffectual  national  produc- 
tion and  a  rapidly  increasing  population1  forced  increasing 
numbers  of  Americans  across  the  mountains. 

So  long  as  commerce  offered  an  alternative,  Americans 
were  loath  to  move  westward.  A  few  years  after  Wash- 
ington's inauguration,  Europe  became  embroiled  in  a  series 
of  wars  which  lasted  a  generation.  The  slaughter  in  the 
East  was  a  golden  opportunity  to  the  poor  Western  Re- 
public. America  turned  its  back  upon  the  forest  and  ex- 
panded toward  the  sea.  She  became  the  audacious  blockade- 
runner,  the  shrewd  trader,  who  stuck  to  business  while 
competitors  quarreled.  American  fleets  filled  the  seas, 
scattered  the  Mediterranean  pirates,  carried  food  to  Eng- 
land, ministered  to  Bonaparte,  and  engaged  in  the  lucra- 
tive, horrific  slave  trade.  Finally  warring  England  and 
France  joined  hands  to  assail  our  rising  commerce.  The 
maritime  monopoly  of  America  ceased.  Our  ships  lay 
idle  in  the  harbors,  and  grass  grew  in  the  Salem  streets.2 

Thereafter  the  undivided  energies  of  Americans  turned 
westward.  The  cession  of  Louisiana  in  1803  had  brought 
under  the  American  flag  distant  lands  less  known  than  are 
to-day  the  hiddenmost  recesses  of  Central  Africa.     Into 

1  Prior  to  the  flood  of  immigration  which  began  in  1820,  the  white  popu- 
lation was  doubling  every  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years,  and  the  slave 
population  was  growing  almost  as  rapidly. 

*  American  commerce  received  so  great  a  setback  through  the  French 
and  English  policies,  the  American  Embargo,  and  the  War  of  1812,  that 
the  tonnage  of  American  vessels  was  less  in  1830  than  in  1800. 


THE   CONQUEST   OF  THE  CONTINENT  27 

the  Western  territory  there  poured,  after  1815,  increasing 
numbers  of  hardy  adventurers.  Turnpikes  were  built 
between  the  ocean  and  the  Appalachians.  The  steam- 
boat, launched  on  the  Hudson,  was  transported  to  the 
Western  rivers,  and  carried  passengers  from  Pittsburg  and 
Cincinnati  to  St.  Louis  and  New  Orleans.  The  opening 
of  the  Erie  Canal  in  1825  connected  the  Great  Lakes  with 
the  Atlantic  Ocean,  while  in  the  early  years  of  the  fourth 
decade  the  newly  invented  railroads  began  to  open  up 
lands  inaccessible  by  water.  The  forests  of  the  North- 
west Territory  went  down  before  ax  and  pyre.  Clear- 
ings were  made,  towns  grew  up,  and  Territories,  and  later 
States,  were  formed.  The  population  of  Ohio,  Indiana, 
Illinois,  Michigan,  and  Wisconsin  increased  from  50,000  in 
1800  to  3,000,000  in  1840.  The  Appalachian  barrier  had 
been  turned.     The  country  lay  open  to  the  Rockies. 

The  building  of  the  West  was  hastened  by  the  wasting  of 
the  East.  Labor  being  scarce  and  land  plenty,  it  seemed 
extravagant  not  to  waste.  Beyond  his  tumble-down  fences 
the  Eastern  cultivator  saw  other  boundless  farms.  The 
New  Englander  profitably  ruined  his  land  and  migrated 
to  Ohio  and  Illinois.  The  Georgian  moved  with  the  spoils 
of  his  ravished  acres  to  the  cheaper  and  more  fertile  acres 
of  Alabama  and  Mississippi.  In  the  South  both  waste  and 
migration  were  incited  by  the  ignorance,  apathy,  and  mo- 
bility of  the  slave.  The  Southern  planter  transported  his 
valuable  human  property  easily  and  cheaply,  and  these 
transitions  carried  slavery  and  cotton  beyond  the  Missis- 
sippi. The  impact  of  "King  Cotton "  drove  the  Mexi- 
cans across  the  Rio  Grande,  and  Texas  and  Arkansas  were 
settled,  while  in  many  parts  of  the  Southeast  decayed 
buildings  and  overgrown  lands  were  all  that  remained  of 
once  prosperous  plantations.  The  center  of  population 
moved  westward.  The  Southwest,  shipping  its  one  "pay- 
crop,"  cotton,  to  Liverpool  and  New  York,  drew  its  corn 


,/th 


28  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  bacon  from  the  Northwest,  which  in  turn  bought 
plows,  railroad  tracks,  and  other  manufactured  products 
from  the  East.  The  North  Atlantic  and  Middle  States 
went  over  to  manufacturing;  the  nation's  mineral  re- 
sources began  to  be  tapped;  and  the  country,  about  the 
year  1840,  emerged  from  its  former  poverty  and  sparse- 
ness  of  population  into  an  era  of  exuberant  prosperity. 
To  this  prosperity  and  to  the  almost  intentionally  waste- 
1  exploitation  of  resources,  two  new  factors  contributed, 
the  railroad  and  migration.  The  railroad,  bringing  the 
virgin  farm  of  the  West  nearer  to  the  wasteful  farmer  of 
the  East,  removed  the  last  penalty  from  the  murdering  of 
the  soil.  The  most  adventurous  and  resilient  among 
Americans,  men  who  in  still  earlier  days  would  have  en- 
gaged in  whaling  or  the  desperate  fur  trade,  turned  their 
energies  into  the  construction  of  railways.  Against  the 
urgent  cry  for  transportation,  voiced  by  the  upgrow- 
ing  nation,  nothing  could  stand.  Peculation,  speculation, 
force,  fraud,  genius,  and  courage,  —  all  went  into  the  new 
lines.  Tracks  were  laid  upon  the  smooth  prairie  into  a 
land  uninhabited.  The  freight  and  passengers  built  the 
road  that  carried  them.  Wooden  bridges,  desperately 
flimsy,  made  subsequent  iron  bridges  possible,  as  iron 
bridges  later  paid  for  steel  and  stone  bridges.  Where  the 
iron  rail  went,  pioneer  and  settler  followed,  and  cities  — 
strident  boom  towns,  born  of  an  insane  optimism  —  sprang 
up  in  swamps  and  forests.  The  railroads,  like  their  chil- 
dren, the  new  communities,  were  a  law  unto  themselves. 
The  savage  little  lines,  fighting  for  life  with  tooth  and  claw, 
running  anywhere  and  everywhere,  cutting,  rebating,  over- 
charging, were  gradually  forced  into  bigger  combinations  of 
continuous  railroad,  which  also  cut,  and  rebated,  and  over- 
charged, and  fought  tooth  and  claw.  Parallel  " strike' '  lines 
arose,  and  the  struggle  for  money  and  land  waxed  fiercer 
and  fiercer;  while  pregnant  America  poured  forth  ever  new 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT  29 

torrents  of  wealth,  and  men  wasted  and  garnered  and 
laughed  and  fought,  as  the  continent  was  conquered. 

While  the  American  pioneers  were  crossing  the  first 
range  of  mountains,  a  reserve  army  was  moving  to  their 
assistance  from  the  fecund  lands  of  western  Europe.  These 
men  too  were  adventurers,  giving  up  home  and  friends 
for  money,  food,  and  a  job.  The  voyage  was  hard.  Suc- 
cess depended  upon  an  ability  to  survive  in  the  ruthless, 
fertile  struggle  of  American  life.  From  1820  on,  immi- 
gration grew  rapidly,  and  after  the  bad  crops  of  the 
late  forties,  the  Irish  Famine  of  1846,  and  the  unsuccess- 
ful German  revolution  of  1848,  millions  of  men  poured 
into  the  Western  Republic.1  The  cities,  which  were  grow- 
ing up  like  weeds,  attracted  the  plastic  Irishman,  while 
the  Germans  swept  over  the  new  lands  of  the  West.  Here, 
beyond  the  Wabash,  the  immigrants  found  an  unforested 
prairie,  where,  though  wood  and  water  often  lacked,  prog- 
ress was  easier.  The  "  prairie  breaker/'  with  his  team 
and  plow,  turned  the  soil,  and  farms  sprang  up  instanta- 
neously. Often  the  immigrants  did  not  settle  on  virgin 
territory,  but  bought  from  pioneers,  who,  after  disposing 
of  their  log  cabins  and  half-burned  woods,  "  cleared  out 
for  the  New  Purchase."  The  incoming  swarms  of  immi- 
grants pushed  the  pioneer  ever  farther  west. 

Settlement,  railroad  building,  and  immigration  were  in 
their  turn  incited  by  a  heedless,  precipitate  disposal  of  the 
public  lands.  Originally  conceived  as  a  common  property 
to  be  sold  for  the  extinguishment  of  the  national  debt,  the 
public  domain  came  to  be  regarded  as  an  infinite  checker- 
board of  future  farms,  to  be  put  into  the  possession  of  in- 
dividual settlers  as  expeditiously  as  possible.  The  prices 
of  agricultural    and   mineral   lands   were  reduced;    credit 

1  From  1821  to  1840,  742,564  immigrants  arrived ;  from  1841  to  1860 
the  number  was  4,311,465,  of  whom  over  two  thirds  were  Irish  and  Ger- 
mans. 


30  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

was,  for  a  time,  extended  to  every  one;  a  succession  of 
"temporary"  statutes  permitted  preemption;  and  finally 
the  Homestead  Law  of  1862,  and  certain  ill-advised  amend- 
ments and  complements  thereto,  let  down  all  bars,  and 
gave  access  to  the  land  without  effective  guarantee  of 
permanent  settlement.  These  methods  stimulated  the  cra- 
ziest excesses  of  land  speculation  and  the  crassest  inequal- 
ities, but  they  also  expedited  settlement.  An  over  generous 
land  policy,  fashioned  by  corrupt  Congresses  and  adminis- 
tered by  corrupt  officials,  succeeded,  at  the  expense  of  all 
future  generations,  in  hastening  the  already  rapid  conquest 
of  the  American  continent. 

Uninterruptedly  the  westward  course  of  the  army  of 
settlement  took  its  way.  The  Mormons,  persecuted  in 
the  East,  turned  the  deserts  of  Utah  into  gardens.  The 
cry  of  "gold"  arose  in  California,  and,  dropping  their 
plows  and  lathes,  men  rushed  madly  to  the  Pacific.  Over 
the  desolate,  arid  wastes,  around  the  Cape,  across  the 
narrowing  continent  at  Panama,  came  the  gold  hunters. 
Farmers,  truck  gardeners,  and  peddler  merchants  followed, 
and  a  new,  rash,  gambling  civilization  arose  on  the  lands 
of  the  stately  Spaniards.  The,  westward  movement,  halted 
by  the  belief  in  a  great  American  Desert,  stretched  out  two 
long,  thin  trails  to  New  Mexico  and  Oregon.  Then  Kan- 
sas and  Nebraska  were  opened,  and  fierce  men  from  North 
and  South  came  to  fight  for  farms  and  to  decide  there  the 
issue  of  slavery.  For,  while  America  grew  in  its  rapid, 
disorganized  way,  sprawling  over  a  continent,  a  nation 
all  arms  and  legs  and  no  body,  the  great  disruption  threat- 
ened. Slaveholders  and  single-handed  pioneers  struggled 
for  the  territories,  for  the  continent  of  America.  Forty 
years  of  compromises  and  evasions  had  brought  the  nation 
to  the  "  Irrepressible  Conflict." 

The  seventh  decade  decided  the  question  whether  the 
continent  wrested   from  nature  should   pertain  to  a  single 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT  31 

nation,  or  to  a  group  of  clashing  nations,  representing 
opposing  ideals.  The  railroad  decided  the  battle  and 
unified  the  nation  and  its  territory.  Backed  by  the  rail- 
road, the  Northern  armies  poured  down  from  East  and 
West  and  overcame  the  heroic  resistance  of  the  South. 
At  last  the  North  and  South,  estranged  for  generations, 
were  united  in  a  nation  which  knew  no  dividing  line.  Four 
years  later,  on  the  10th  of  May,  1869,  a  golden  spike  was 
driven  into  the  connecting  rails  of  the  Union  Pacific  Rail- 
road, and  the  two  oceans  were  united  by  a  rod  of  steel. 
The   continent  was   conquered. 

The  land  had  been  covered.  The  public  domain,  opened 
by  the  homestead  laws,  lavished  upon  railroad  corporations, 
despoiled  by  timber  thieves,  by  mineral  reserve  exploiters, 
and  by  adventurers,  honest  and  dishonest,  showed  signs  of 
depletion.1  When,  in  1889,  Oklahoma  was  opened  for  set- 
tlement, the  overwhelming  rush  of  land-hungry  men  showed 
that  the  patrimony  of  the  country  was  lessened.2  The 
processes  of  exploitation  and  waste  were  extended  to  min- 
eral, timber,  and  swamp  lands,  and  were  aided  by  machin- 
ery, which  during  the  century  had  revolutionized  indus- 
try and  now  lent  its  immense  powers  to  the  spoilers  of  the 
nation.  Trees  were  no  longer  brought  down  by  the  ax, 
but  vast  forests  were  destroyed  by  machinery  with  the 
rapidity  of  fire.  Iron  was  shoveled  by  steam  out  of  the 
unprotecting  hills.  The  steam  drill  invaded  the  coalpit, 
and  wonderful  inventions  of  warfare  were  turned  against 
the  disappearing  fauna  of  the  continent. 

Our  frontier,  the  actual  physical  boundary  of  the  coun- 

1  According  to  the  report  of  the  Public  Lands  Commission  of  1905,  al- 
most one  billion  acres  (967,667,449)  had  been  disposed  of  in  the  United 
States  (excluding  Alaska)  up  to  July  1,  1904.  Of  this,  114,502,528  acres 
were  forests  reserves,  and  over  162,000,000  acres  were  Indian  lands  and 
school  and  other  grants  to  States  and  Territories. 

2  On  the  first  day  of  entry  more  than  fifty  thousand  people  entered  to 
occupy  the  land. 


32  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

try,  had  been  attained.  For  the  man  who  had  girdled  the 
trees  and  built  log  cabins  in  Tennessee  or  Ohio,  there  was 
no  chance  in  newly  acquired  lands  in  Pacific  and  Caribbean. 
The  westward  wave  of  migration,  checked  but  still  unspent, 
turned  back  upon  itself.  The  driving  force,  the  fierce 
!  resistless  momentum,  remained,  but  there  was  nothing 
against  which  to  strike.  The  alkali  lands  of  the  silent 
desert,  the  cloudless  blue  skies  of  arid  America,  laughed  at 
the  plow  and  the  harrow  and  the  earnest,  searching  glances 
of  the  home  builders.  The  Pacific  Ocean,  stretching  out 
to  the  thronged  coasts  of  China,  buried  the  hopes  of  those 
who  for  generations  had  conquered  the  continent.  The 
occupation  of  America  seemed  gone. 

It  was  not  that  there  were  no  virgin  lands,  no  unused 
mines,  no  primeval  forests.  All  these  there  were,  but  they 
were  preempted.  Appropriation,  not  use,  had  cornered 
the  opportunities.  The  railroads  alone  had  received  over 
a  hundred  million  acres,  which  they  now  held  at  their  use 
and  pleasure.  From  the  beginning,  the  pioneer  had  taken 
what  he  could  and  had  held  what  he  took.  The  gigantic 
railroad,  with  a  thousand  fold  greater  power,  had  done  but 
the  same.  Farseeing  corporations  of  enormous  reserve 
strength  had  grabbed  legally  and  illegally,  had  seized 
strategic  positions,  had  secured  themselves  against  the  time 
when  tens  of  millions  of  homeless  men  would  press  upon 
the  no  longer  boundless,  but  strictly  bounded,  territory. 

While  the  pioneer  had  struggled  with  ax  and  plow 
against  the  resistance  of  trees  and  soil,  a  silent  change  had 
taken  place  behind  him.  Machinery  had  become  highly 
specialized  and  had  conquered  the  world;  competition 
had  become  tempered  by  combination.  Railroads  had 
become  trunk  lines,  transcontinental  systems,  and  finally 
amalgamations  of  systems.  The  trust  had  arisen.  The 
trust  had  tramped  into  the  disordered  ring  of  life  as  the 
pioneer  had  forced  his  way  into  the  forest.    In  pioneering 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT  33 

itself,  once  the  province  of  the  individual  man,  in  the  dis- 
covery, appropriation,  and  exploitation  of  resources,  the 
trust  had  excelled  as  it  excelled  in  the  refining  of  oil  and 
the  making  of  steel. 

The  old  style  pioneer,  the  log  cabin  man,  the  placer 
miner,  had  been  met  and  held  off  by  his  brother  of  a  more 
modern  type.  The  new  pioneer  might  be  a  soft-handed 
gentleman,  with  a  taste  for  intrigue  and  percentages,  and 
as  ignorant  of  woodcraft  as  was  Daniel  Boone  of  deben- 
ture bonds.  Nevertheless  the  same  adventurous,  getting 
spirit  which  had  driven  and  lured  the  frontiersman  into 
the  forest  now  attracted  the  like-minded  promoter  into 
the  similar  business  of  wholesale  preemption.  Like  the 
pioneer,  though  on  a  much  greater  scale,  the  promoter 
preempted;  like  the  pioneer,  though  on  a  much  greater 
scale,  he  wasted,  ravaged,  and  laid  fire ;  like  the  pioneer, 
though  on  a  much  greater  scale,  he  built  for  himself  and 
for  the  nation.  Ruthless,  greedy,  imaginative,  he  erected, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  by  his  own  brains  and  the  tribu- 
tary science  of  the  world,  an  edifice  overpowering  in  its 
immensity. 

Against  that  edifice,  against  the  preemption  of  financier 
and  trust  builder,  the  naked  hands  of  the  pioneer  could 
avail  nothing.  His  self-reliant  individualism,  formerly 
the  mainspring  of  his  strength,  now  reduced  him  to  impo- 
tence. Preemption  had  grown  large  and  prevented  pre- 
emption. Individualism,  fattened  on  reserve  money 
strength,  inspired  by  an  avid  appetite  for  gain,  directed 
by  science,  system,  and  the  subtlety  of  invention,  had  ren- 
dered individualism  abortive.  The  new  preemptor  cir- 
cled his  appropriations  with  excluding  fences  far  more 
effective  than  those  of  the  early  pioneer.  About  his  prop- 
erty, however  gained,  were  legal  grants,  and  legal  con- 
firmations, statutes  of  limitation,  corrupt  political  organi- 
zations, pliant  judges,  and  the  laws  and  the  constitutions 


34  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

of  the  States  and  of  the  United  States.  The  old  pioneer 
was  warned  off  the  farm,  warned  off  the  cattle  range,  warned 
off  the  forests,  warned  off  the  mines.  Discouraged,  as 
though  bewildered  by  the  abortion  of  a  primal  instinct, 
the  pioneer,  the  typical  American,  turned  back  from  the 
physical  frontier  to  lose  himself  in  the  city,  in  the  wilder- 
ness of  opportunities  of  the  city. 

While  the  pioneer  was  felling  the  forest,  the  city  had 
been  growing  apace.  The  city,  which  all  over  the  world 
was  becoming  the  new  home  of  civilization,  had  developed  in 
America  even  more  rapidly  than  elsewhere.  It  grew  with 
the  progress  of  the  pioneers;  it  grew  even  faster  after  the 
pioneer  period  ended.  As  the  supply  of  free  Western  farms 
ceased,  as  the  settlers,  with  no  further  place  to  go,  began 
to  exploit  what  they  had,  the  alternative  which  the  fron- 
tier once  offered  to  the  city  disappeared.  The  progress 
of  agriculture  enabled  one  farmer  to  perform  what  two 
had  performed  before,  and  the  surplus  rural  population 
moved  to  the  upgrowing  cities.  The  very  isolation  of 
the  farm,  with  its  sharp  limitation  of  possibilities,  sent 
the  most  energetic  boys  to  the  cities.  The  immigrants, 
finding  the  new  lands  preempted,  remained  at  the  ports 
of  entry.  The  new  opportunities,  the  chances  which  the 
pioneer  had  sought  among  the  trees,  on  the  plains,  or  in 
the  sands  of  California's  rivers,  were  now  sought  in  the 
mysterious,  congested,  surcharged  life  of  the  city. 

Here  the  pioneer  met  a  new  frontier.  The  streets  of 
the  cities  were  underlaid  with  networks  of  telephone  wires, 
electric  railway  conduits  and  privately  owned  water 
mains,  so  that  no  new  individual  or  company  could  com- 
pete. The  best  city  sites,  those  adapted  for  depart- 
ment stores,  office  buildings,  and  fashionable  residences, 
were  in  the  hands  of  men  who  held  them  at  enormous 
prices.  The  road  to  political  preference  in  the  city  lay 
through  bosses  who  had  preempted  the  strategic  points  of 


THE   CONQUEST  OF  THE  CONTINENT  35 

the  city  control,  or  through  financiers  who  controlled  the 
.bosses. 

jv  Everywhere  the  preemptor  had  been.  The  city,  con- 
iceived  in  an  individualistic  society  and  composed  of  men 
who  minded  their  own  business  and  nothing  else,  had  grown 
up  like  one  of  its  own  ragged  newsboys,  untended,  reck- 
less, and  weak.  The  preemptors,  divided  in  grabbing,  were 
united  in  holding.  The  politicians  exploited  the  apathy 
of  the  public,  and  the  financier  exploited  the  cupidity  of 
the  politician.  " Deals' '  and  "jobs"  had  become  vested 
rights  in  perpetual  franchises,  and  what  had  been  obtained 
by  foul  means  was  held  by  fair.  Our  legal  traditions  and 
our  most  sacred  political  institutions  had  sanctified  the  end, 
though  they  abhorred  the  means,  and  a  midnight  fran- 
chise grab  was  crowned  with  the  sanction  of  the  Consti- 
tution of  the  United  States.  And  so  in  the  city,  as  on  the 
wide-stretching  continent,  men  had  preempted  and  bribed 
and  stolen  and  bought  in  good  faith,  until  preemption  pre- 
cluded preemption  and  grabbing  put  a  stop  to  grabbing.  - 
The  chances  of  the  city,  like  the  chances  of  the  forest, 
became  circumscribed.  The  city,  like  the  country,  was 
preempted. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   INDIVIDUALISTIC   SPIRIT   OF   AMERICA 

THE  westward  march  of  the  pioneer  gave  to  Americans 
a  psychological  twist  which  was  to  hinder  the  develop- 
ment of  a  socialized  democracy.  The  open  continent  in- 
toxicated the  American.  It  gave  him  an  enlarged  view  of 
self.  It  dwarfed  the  common  spirit.  It  made  the  American 
mind  a  little  sovereignty  of  its  own,  acknowledging  no  alle- 
giances and  but  few  obligations.  It  created  an  individual- 
ism, self-confident,  short-sighted,  lawless,  doomed  in  the 
end  to  defeat  itself,  as  the  boundless  opportunities  which 
gave  it  birth  became  at  last  circumscribed. 

Based  though  this  individualism  was  upon  the  environ- 
ment of  the  American,  it  was  also  in  part  an  intellectual 
heritage.  National  character  depends  upon  the  past  as 
upon  the  present.  Had  America  been  settled  by  Lapland- 
ers, equatorial  Negroes,  Spaniards,  Venetians,  or  Greeks, 
our  civilization  would  have  developed  differently.  We  can- 
not understand  the  problems  of  to-day,  nor  foresee  the  solu- 
tions of  to-morrow,  without  knowing  something  of  the  minds 
of  the  middle-class  Englishmen  who  came  to  Massachusetts 
in  the  seventeenth  century. 

The  roots  of  these  men's  characters  ran  deep  into  the  soil 
of  dead  centuries.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers  imported  traditions 
formed  millenniums  before  by  Angles  and  Saxons  in  the 
Baltic  dunes.  The  history  of  England,  from  the  Heptarchy 
to  James  the  First,  was  part  of  their  intellectual  equipment. 
In  their  beliefs  and  prejudices  might  be  traced  the  slow  polit- 
ical and  legal  development  of  England,  the  stiffness  and 
harshness  of  the  common  law,  the  tenacious  middle-class 

36 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  37 

traditions  of  the  towns,  the  democratizing,  individualizing 
effects  of  Reformation  and  Dissent.  The  early  spirit, 
strong,  narrow,  pious,  became  diluted  as  the  Puritan  stream 
flowed  into  the  ocean  of  English  America.  Even  in  dilu- 
tion, however,  it  preserved,  and  to  this  day  preserves,  much 
of  its  individualistic,  uncompromising,  reforming  quality. 

Another  type  of  man  lived  in  Virginia,  and  men  of  still 
different  caliber  were  to  settle  Maryland,  Pennsylvania,  and 
Georgia.  The  Dutch  in  New  York,  the  Swedes  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, the  French  Huguenots  in  the  South,  had  still  less  in 
common  with  the  men  who  plowed  New  England's  rocks. 
But  the  Puritans  prevailed.  Though  the  Carolinian  plan- 
tation owner  scorned  the  Connecticut  divine,  though  the 
wealthy  and  populous  South  overshadowed  New  England 
and  New  York,  though  Virginia,  not  Massachusetts,  be- 
came the  mother  of  Presidents,  it  was  in  the  North  that  the 
spirit  of  the  nation  was  evolved. 

That  spirit  was  necessarily  individualistic.  The  colo- 
nists were  more  self-reliant  than  even  the  original,  self- 
reliant  British  stock,  since,  broadly  speaking,  only  selected 
men  essayed  the  ocean  journey.  No  aid  from  a  hostile* 
Stuart-ruled  England  could  reach  the  colonist,  who,  sepa- 
rated from  his  neighbors  by  miles  of  treacherous  forest,  was 
compelled  to  rely  upon  himself.  With  the  aid  of  his  family, 
he  plowed  his  acres,  shot  his  game,  caught  his  fish,  made 
his  soap  and  candles,  dressed  and  cured  his  leather,  spun 
and  wove,  did  his  own  carpentering,  and  sometimes  his  own 
smithing.  He  made  what  he  ate,  wore,  and  lived  in,  and 
he  made  and  held  his  own  opinions.  His  philosophy  was 
that  of  the  lonely,  self-contained  farmhouse. 

When,  after  the  wars  with  England  and  her  Indian  allies, 
the  back  country  was  opened,  and  the  colonists,  leaving 
behind  sea  and  civilization,  settled  their  farms  in  the  virgin 
forest,  a  new  era  opened  for  American  individualism.  So 
long  as  the  settlers  had  lived  on  the  fringe  of  America,  like 


38  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

shipwrecked  sailors  clinging  to  the  barren  coast  of  a  lavish 
land,  they  had  preserved  some  of  their  old  traditions.  What 
revolutionized  them  was  their  march  into  the  continent, 
the  erection  of  a  mountain  barrier  between  them  and  Europe. 
As  the  continent  was  transformed  by  the  settlers,  so  in 
turn  the  settlers  were  transformed  by  the  continent.  It 
was  the  continent  that  created  the  typical  individualistic 
American  spirit. 

That  influence  was  not  the  mere  sight  of  beautiful  rivers 
and  primeval  forests.  Men  are  affected  wonderfully  little 
by  scenery  and  wonderfully  much  by  considerations  of 
bread  and  butter.  West  of  the  mountains,  individualism 
was  rooted  in  the  soil.  All  the  elements  of  the  trans- 
Appalachian  life,  the  free  movement,  the  initial  character 
of  the  inhabitants,  the  contemporaneous  political  theories, 
the  cross  currents  of  immigrant  nations  —  all  aided  in  the 
development  of  this  national  characteristic.  On  the  fertile 
lands  along  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi,  as  on  the  unforested 
prairies  beyond,  success  could  be  attained  by  the  individual, 
reenforced  by  the  occasional  reciprocal  assistance  of  his 
neighbors.  No  great  irrigation  projects  were  needed,  such 
as  made  the  Mormons  a  semicommunistic  group  and  are 
perhaps  destined  to  socialize  the  future  settlers  of  arid 
America ;  and  no  scarcity  of  land  and  no  fear  of  foreign  in- 
vasion forced  the  people  into  villages  like  those  of  continen- 
tal Europe,  where  all  peasants  must  act  in  the  common  in- 
terest. The  scattering  of  so  small  a  population  over  so  large 
an  area  led  to  an  unprecedented  exaggeration  of  the  centrif- 
ugal forces  of  society.     The  individual  stood  alone. 

The  most  representative  type  of  this  American  individual- 
ism was  the  pioneer.  It  was  he  who  typified  the  expansive 
force  of  American  civilization  in  the  rarefied  American  con- 
tinent. This  backwoodsman,  overburdened  with  land, 
clamored  for  more  land,  for  Louisiana  and  Texas,  for  New 
Mexico  and  California,  for  Oregon  to  fifty-four-forty.     His 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC    SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  39 

almost  savage  individualism  triumphed  over  forest,  swamps, 
malaria,  privation,  and  solitude.  It  transformed  his  rough 
log  cabin  into  a  "castle"  and  his  vague,  far-reaching  land 
and  his  roaming  swine  into  "property."  It  showed  itself 
in  a  sense  of  complete  self-containment  and  in  a  churlish 
though  free  hospitality.  Ignorant,  dirty,  often  drunken, 
frequently  brutal,  as  some  of  these  "solitaries"  were,  they 
nevertheless  possessed  a  certain  large  dignity  not  unlike 
that  of  the  Hebrew  shepherds.  Forever  displaced  by 
steadier  and  more  industrious  beneficiaries  of  his  adventure, 
this  marginal  man,  with  his  eyes  ever  towards  the  West, 
loomed  up  large  in  the  imagination  of  Americans,  and  cast 
his  shadow  backwards  over  the  filling  land  and  its  cities, 
over  even  the  national  Congress  assembled  at  Washington. 

The  self-reliant,  aggressive  individualism  of  the  pioneer 
was  also  the  spirit  of  the  American  factory  builder,  town 
boomer,  railroad  wrecker,  promoter,  trust  manipulator,  and 
a  long  line  of  spectacularly  successful  industrial  leaders. 
During  the  Conquest  of  the  American  Continent  there  was 
developing  in  Europe,  as  a  result  of  changed  economic  con- 
ditions, a  keen,  assertive,  individualistic  captain  of  industry. 
The  Oldham  cotton  manufacturers,  like  the  colliery  pro- 
prietors of  Lancashire,  Belgium,  and  France,  developed 
qualities  similar  to  those  of  Americans.  In  the  Western 
land,  however,  individualism  was  a  national,  not  a  class, 
characteristic.  The  continent  was  one  enormous  workshop, 
and  it  was  new,  not  like  the  scarred  European  continent, 
which  had  been  the  burying  ground  for  a  century  of  cen- 
turies of  fighting,  starving  populations.  In  America,  except 
the  slave  (the  whipping  boy  of  civilization),  all  were  imbued 
with  something  of  the  spirit  that  in  Europe  pertained  to  a 
few. 

It  was  not  that  the  American  industrial  leaders  imitated 
the  pioneer,  but  that  they  were  subject  to  conditions  simi- 
lar to  his.    Everywhere  in  America  there  was  a  low  external 


42  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

cause  or  another,  for  the  breaking  of  economic  laws  or  of 
the  tabled  Commandments  of  God,  America,  it  was  pre- 
dicted, would  shatter,  and  be  one  with  Nineveh  and  Troy. 
America  never  shattered.  Despite  political  corruption  and 
absurd  legislation,  despite  an  extravagance  of  errors  that 
would  have  doomed  another  nation,  the  rallying  continent 
and  the  invincible  buoyancy  of  the  American  spirit  tri- 
umphed. Supply  preceded  demand  and  created  demand. 
Confidence,  not  caution,  was  the  law  of  business. 

A  corollary  of  American  optimism  was  tolerance.  This 
tolerance,  which  was  half-part  indifference,  extended  to 
slavery,  slums,  piratical  business,  and  political  corruption. 
The  presence  on  the  continent  of  a  great  community  of  un- 
like, free,  and  nominally  equal  men  stimulated  this  toleration, 
as  did  also  the  fluidity  of  American  life,  the  facile  escape 
from  local  evil  conditions,  the  easy  association  in  business 
and  society  of  diverse  elements,  and  the  free  exchange  of 
goods  and  ideas  between  different  sections.  Prosperity,  too 
made  for  tolerance.  To  a  well-fed,  well-housed,  suitably 
mated  man,  few  beliefs,  opinions,  or  prejudices  are  intoler- 
able; and  the  ready  humor  of  America,  tinged  with  the  joy 
of  mere  well-being,  was  both  an  antidote  and  an  alternative 
to  intolerance. 

The  potential  success  inhering  in  all  men,  the  chance  that 
even  the  unfortunate  might  eventually  triumph,  widened 
further  the  application  of  tolerance.  The  " crank"  must  be 
humored  because  his  crazy  device  might  transform  an  in- 
dustry. The  ragged  and  ungrammatical  visionary  might 
found  a  religion  or  an  empire ;  the  log  splitter  might  become 
Chief  Executive.  The  immigrants  —  German,  Irishman,  and 
Swede  —  were  tolerated,  because  through  this  very  toleration 
these  people  "won  out,"  and  lost  their  alien  qualities  in 
the  dissolving  bath  of  American  prosperity.  The  continent 
was  big  enough  for  wise  and  foolish,  good  and  bad.  Except- 
ing always  the  Negro  —  the  helot  of  North  and  South  — 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  43 

only  the  polygamist  and  the  atheist  were  held  outside  the' 
pale.     Especially  the  atheist,  for  it  behooved  all  men  to 
believe  in  a  Creator  who  had  fashioned  the  continent  and 
reserved  it  for  the  eleventh-hour  American. 

The  continent  made  us  a  " practical"  people.     We  judged 
policies   by   "results" ;    by  immediate,   visible,   realizable 
results.     We  were  not  thorough.     In  America,  it  did  not 
pay  to  be  thorough.     We  did  not  think  things  out.     We      . 
did  not  generalize.     Our  political  and  economic  life  appeared  j 
as  a  disconnected  succession  of  suddenly  arising  problems,  A  jl 
each  of  which  was  to  be  singly  met  —  or  singly  avoided./ 
We  did  not  determine  on  definite  long-time  policies.     To7 
the  future  —  that  beneficent  but  unknowable  ally  of  Amer- 
ica —  we  intrusted  the  problems  of  the  future.     America 
lived  under  the  dominion  of  the  immediate.     The  Ameri- 
cans were  a  " practical"  people. 

The  crass,  unbounded  individualism  of  the  practical  Ameri- 
can found  its  highest  expression  in  private  business  and  the 
quest  of  money.  Although  Americans  were  idealistic,  and 
even  sentimental,  although  the  nation,  sympathetic  and 
generous,  gave  to  all  alien  causes  which  appealed  to  the 
common  mind,  nevertheless  it  was  with  a  certain  justice 
that  America  was  called  the  Land  of  Dollars.  The  dollar^ 
was  omnipotent.  Traditions  being  weak,  classes  inchoate, 
and  the  state  inactive,  the  individual  in  measuring  his  suc- 
cess accepted  this  only  available  standard.  The  very  fluid- 
ity of  the  nebulous  communities,  the  ease  with  which  one 
man  became  successively  laborer,  teacher,  farmer,  lawyer, 
soldier,  legislator,  and  banker,  and  the  prevalence  of  the 
creed  that  any  man  could  do  anything,  tended  to  reduce  all 
the  inequalities  of  life  to  the  one  equality  of  the  dollar. 

It  was,  moreover,  a  useful  and  essential  standard,  for  it 
was  the  dollar,  not  the  title  of  nobility,  or  the  university 
degree,  that  could  conquer  the  land.  The  continent  and 
its  conquest  fused  with  the  conception  of  the  dollar,  and  the 


42  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

cause  or  another,  for  the  breaking  of  economic  laws  or  of 
the  tabled  Commandments  of  God,  America,  it  was  pre- 
dicted, would  shatter,  and  be  one  with  Nineveh  and  Troy. 
America  never  shattered.  Despite  political  corruption  and 
absurd  legislation,  despite  an  extravagance  of  errors  that 
would  have  doomed  another  nation,  the  rallying  continent 
and  the  invincible  buoyancy  of  the  American  spirit  tri- 
umphed. Supply  preceded  demand  and  created  demand. 
Confidence,  not  caution,  was  the  law  of  business. 

A  corollary  of  American  optimism  was  tolerance.  This 
tolerance,  which  was  half-part  indifference,  extended  to 
slavery,  slums,  piratical  business,  and  political  corruption. 
The  presence  on  the  continent  of  a  great  community  of  un- 
like, free,  and  nominally  equal  men  stimulated  this  toleration, 
as  did  also  the  fluidity  of  American  life,  the  facile  escape 
from  local  evil  conditions,  the  easy  association  in  business 
and  society  of  diverse  elements,  and  the  free  exchange  of 
goods  and  ideas  between  different  sections.  Prosperity,  too 
made  for  tolerance.  To  a  well-fed,  well-housed,  suitably 
mated  man,  few  beliefs,  opinions,  or  prejudices  are  intoler- 
able; and  the  ready  humor  of  America,  tinged  with  the  joy 
of  mere  well-being,  was  both  an  antidote  and  an  alternative 
to  intolerance. 

The  potential  success  inhering  in  all  men,  the  chance  that 
even  the  unfortunate  might  eventually  triumph,  widened 
further  the  application  of  tolerance.  The  " crank"  must  be 
humored  because  his  crazy  device  might  transform  an  in- 
dustry. The  ragged  and  ungrammatical  visionary  might 
found  a  religion  or  an  empire ;  the  log  splitter  might  become 
Chief  Executive.  The  immigrants  —  German,  Irishman,  and 
Swede  —  were  tolerated,  because  through  this  very  toleration 
these  people  "won  out,"  and  lost  their  alien  qualities  in 
the  dissolving  bath  of  American  prosperity.  The  continent 
was  big  enough  for  wise  and  foolish,  good  and  bad.  Except- 
ing always  the  Negro  —  the  helot  of  North  and  South  — 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  43 

only  the  polygamist  and  the  atheist  were  held  outside  the'' 
pale.     Especially  the  atheist,  for  it  behooved  all  men  to 
believe  in  a  Creator  who  had  fashioned  the  continent  and 
reserved  it  for  the  eleventh-hour  American. 

The  continent  made  us  a  " practical"  people.     We  judged 
policies  by   " results";    by  immediate,   visible,   realizable 
results.     We  were  not  thorough.     In  America,  it  did  not 
pay  to  be  thorough.     We  did  not  think  things  out.     We      . 
did  not  generalize.     Our  political  and  economic  life  appeared  j 
as  a  disconnected  succession  of  suddenly  arising  problems,  A  jjl 
each  of  which  was  to  be  singly  met  —  or  singly  avoided./ 
We  did  not  determine  on  definite  long-time  policies.     TV 
the  future  —  that  beneficent  but  unknowable  ally  of  Amer- 
ica —  we  intrusted  the  problems  of  the  future.     America 
lived  under  the  dominion  of  the  immediate.     The  Ameri- 
cans were  a  " practical"  people. 

The  crass,  unbounded  individualism  of  the  practical  Ameri- 
can found  its  highest  expression  in  private  business  and  the 
quest  of  money.  Although  Americans  were  idealistic,  and 
even  sentimental,  although  the  nation,  sympathetic  and 
generous,  gave  to  all  alien  causes  which  appealed  to  the  . 
common  mind,  nevertheless  it  was  with  a  certain  justice 
that  America  was  called  the  Land  of  Dollars.  The  dollar 
was  omnipotent.  Traditions  being  weak,  classes  inchoate, 
and  the  state  inactive,  the  individual  in  measuring  his  suc- 
cess accepted  this  only  available  standard.  The  very  fluid- 
ity of  the  nebulous  communities,  the  ease  with  which  one 
man  became  successively  laborer,  teacher,  farmer,  lawyer, 
soldier,  legislator,  and  banker,  and  the  prevalence  of  the 
creed  that  any  man  could  do  anything,  tended  to  reduce  all 
the  inequalities  of  life  to  the  one  equality  of  the  dollar. 

It  was,  moreover,  a  useful  and  essential  standard,  for  it 
was  the  dollar,  not  the  title  of  nobility,  or  the  university 
degree,  that  could  conquer  the  land.  The  continent  and 
its  conquest  fused  with  the  conception  of  the  dollar,  and  the 


44  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

possession  of  money  was  prima  facie  evidence  of  a  man's 
usefulness  to  society.  There  was  no  cringing  to  gold,  for 
all  had  it  prospectively.  But  there  was  respect  for  it,  since 
each  man  worshiped  in  the  millionaire  the  apotheosis  of 
his  individualistic  self. 

American  individualism,  applied  to  business,  explained 
^all  our  then  economic  arrangements  and  all  our  business 
methods  and  traditions.  Individualism,  run  riot  and  re- 
joicing in  its  own  excesses,  led  to  a  veritable  pay  streak 
theory  of  business.  The  American  followed  the  one  lead, 
raised  the  one  crop,  worked  the  one  vein,  cut  the  best  trees, 
took  everywhere  the  cream  of  the  cream.  In  a  search  for 
dollars  in  a  country  where  a  dollar  to-day  was  worth  ten 
to-morrow,  there  was  no  wisdom  in  working  poor  soils,  in 
preserving  fertility,  in  gathering  coal  from  culm  heaps,  in 
securing  by-products,  or  in  working  for  the  permanence  or 
salvation  of  machinery  that  could  be  " scrapped,"  of  work- 
men who  could  be  replaced,  or  of  properties  which  could  be 
duplicated.  The  American  shipbuilder  built  ships  to  sail, 
not  to  last.  Factories  and  cities  were  built  for  immediate 
profit,  like  the  cheap  shanties  of  a  moving  gang  of  Polish 
railroad  laborers.  The  six-story  house  was  dismantled  to 
build  the  twenty-story  skyscraper.  Naturally,  during  the 
brief  life  of  these  temporary  elements  of  a  permanent  civili- 
zation, each  was  worked  to  its  utmost  capacity.  Intensity 
became  the  law  of  business.  The  night  was  made  " joint 
laborer  with  the  day,"  and  in  a  few  years  of  feverish  activity 
relays  of  highly  paid  workmen  got  out  of  a  new  machine  its 
full  value.  In  the  North  the  free  workers  were  lured  into 
intense  labor  and  excessive  overtime ;  in  the  South,  on  some 
of  the  plantations  of  Louisiana,  it  was  found  profitable  to 
work  off  a  stock  of  negroes  once  every  seven  years,  and  to 
buy  a  new  set  with  the  proceeds  of  the  cane.  As  for  the 
property  —  the  farm,  mine,  mill,  railroad  —  the  goose  was 
worth  less  than  the  golden  egg. 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  45 

The  sequence  of  such  untrammeled  individualism  was  a 
brutally  unprincipled  code  of  business  morals.  Every  man  / 
was  presumed  capable  of  playing  his  own  game.  The  teir-*J 
derfoot  from  the  East  was  expected  to  know  a  ranch  when 
he  saw  one.  If  a  simple-minded  man  bought  a  broken- 
winded  horse,  a  salted  gold  mine,  a  city  lot  in  Lake  Michigan, 
or  the  mythical  wooden  nutmeg,  it  was  his  lookout.  If  he 
bought  sand  in  his  sugar,  water  in  his  milk,  chicory  in  his 
coffee,  or  chalk  in  his  bread,  he  had  no  redress.  He  could 
not  appeal  to  a  spiritless,  futile  law,  cramped  like  a  Chinese 
foot;  he  could  not  protest  to  a  community  which  would 
have  laughed  at  the  fool  and  his  folly.  The  buyer  did  what 
some  men  do  when  they  receive  a  counterfeit  dollar.  He 
kept  silent,  and  passed  it  on. 

Upon  competitors,  the  individualist  turned  the  same  bat- 
teries. Competition,  the  fetish  of  America,  was  largely  un- 
regulated by  public  opinion.  The  spirit  of  haggling  was 
everywhere,  in  the  horse  trades  of  country  fairs,  the  bar- 
gainings of  itinerant  peddlers,  the  real  estate  transactions 
of  boom  cities.  The  competitive  spirit  ran  high  among 
towns  offering  rival  locations  to  a  prospective  railroad,  and 
among  the  railroads  themselves,  which  during  rate  wars 
might  carry  the  passenger  free  and  give  him  a  bonus.  The 
little  country  newspapers  carried  a  competition  for  sub- 
scribers into  their  fierce  editorial  columns,  and  thousands 
of  lawyers,  doctors,  and  dentists,  throwing  aside  professional 
restraints,  launched  into  lurid  advertising  of  competitive 
claims.  In  the  relentless  struggle  for  patronage,  bribery, 
treating,  false  pretense,  the  buying  off  of  rivals'  agents,  the 
damaging  of  rivals'  wares,  ingenious  chicanery  of  all  sorts, 
entered  into  the  game.  Competition  was  war,  and  in  war 
all  was  fair. 

The  apotheosis  of  American  individualism  was  the  rebate. 
It  was  the  individualistic,  higgling  spirit  carried  to  its  logi- 
cal conclusion.    It  was  a  negation  of  the  public  character 


46  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  public  responsibilities  of  railroads,  and  an  assertion  of 
the  principle  that  each  man  might  be  permitted,  here  as 
elsewhere,  to  make  the  best  bargain  possible,  open  or  secret, 
and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost. 

In  the  early  days  a  man  injured  by  a  rebate  to  a  rival  did 
not  waste  time  deploring  the  demoralization  of  business. 
He  passed  the  counterfeit  dollar  along ;  he  secured  a  larger 
rebate  for  himself.  In  the  eyes  of  that  generation,  a  shipper 
who  could  not,  through  bribery,  cajolery,  intimidation,  or 
bluffing,  secure  a  rebate,  was  as  deservedly  unsuccessful  as 
the  manufacturer  who  failed  to  secure  customers.  The  atti- 
tude towards  the  public  interest  in  uniform  railroad  rates 
was  summed  up  in  the  sententious  phrase,  "The  public  be 
damned  I" 

The  individualism  of  the  American  led  to  gambling ;  com- 
petition was  gambling.  In  America,  as  in  other  countries 
where  the  future  is  large  and  indefinite  (but  especially  in 
America),  gambling  was  the  core  of  business.  The  continent 
offered  a  fortune  to  the  lucky  speculator ;  the  railroads  car- 
ried the  product,  and  the  advertising  newspaper,  the  words, 
of  the  lucky  manufacturer  to  the  farthest  hamlet.  There 
was  no  foretelling  the  fancy  of  the  public,  that  credulous, 
milhon-headed,  million-mouthed  monster.  A  man  might 
spend  a  fortune  on  factories  and  advertising  —  and  lose  ; 
another  might  invent  a  shoe  button  or  glove  hook,  or  coin  a 
happy  advertising  name  for  his  candy,  soap,  or  cigarette, 
and  millions  poured  upon  him.  The  incompetent  farmer 
found  zinc  or  oil  upon  his  land,  or  was  overtaken  by  a  great 
city,  so  that  his  pigsty  became  worth  a  dozen  farms.  The 
easy-going  man  bought  a  few  yards  of  "begging"  telephone 
stock  and  became  a  financial  magnate.  Men  bought, 
luckily  or  unluckily,  mines,  stocks,  great  tracts  of  land ;  they 
appealed  to  the  God  of  Chance  as  they  appealed  to  the  silent 
continent.  They  placed  the  years  of  their  lives  and  their 
precarious  fortunes  upon  the  cast  of  a  die,  upon  a  future  hap- 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA  47 

pening  —  or  failure  to  happen.  America  was  one  large 
gambling  "joint/'  where  money,  success,  and  prestige  were 
the  counters,  and  the  players  were  old  men  and  young 
women,  pioneers  and  workmen,  holders  of  trust  funds,  and 
little  boys,  devoutly  reading  conventionalized  biographies 
of  successful  men. 

But  it  is  of  the  essence  of  gambling  that  the  few  win  and 
the  many  lose.     Moreover,   as   the  American  game  pro- 
gressed, the  rules  were  changed  to  suit  the  big  players..7 
More  and  more,  the  little  gamblers,   "  the  pikers,"  "  the 
lambs/7  staked  their  "piles,"  not  against  the  resources  of 
the  continent,  as  before,  but    against  what  was  to  them  a 
dead  uncertainty  and  to  the  big  gamblers  a  "sure  thing." 
The  big  gambler  used  the  little  gambler's  money ;  the  littler- 
gambler   became  the   stake.   Llhe    chances   of   the  game  ft 
seemed  gone,  but  the  inveterate,  little  gambler  called,  not 
for  a  halt,  but  for  a  "square  deal.") 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  psychological  world  in  which  the 
American  individualist  found  himself,  when,  with  the  reach- 
ing of  the  frontier,  American  enterprise  turned  back  upon 
itself.  The  little  gambler  was  like  the  belated  boy.  who 
dreams  of  a  Far  West  of  Indian  trails,  but  finds  there  only 
railways  and  automobile  roads.  The  individualist  became 
bewildered  when  his  familiar  rebating  became  double-cross 
rebating,  and  the  big  shipper  received  both  his  own  and  the* 
little  shipper's  rebate,  and  he  became  still  more  confused 
when  the  big  shipper  ended  rebates  by  acquiring  his  own  rail- 
roads and  his  own  pipe  lines.  The  individualistic  American 
was  dumfounded  when  he  saw  that  favorable  terminal 
facilities,  public  service  franchises,  and  other  special  privi- 
leges, given  to  a  competitor,  had  ended  competition ;  when 
he  saw  competition  become  parasitic;  when  he  saw  the 
Itrusts  organizing  a  fictitious  competition  against  themselves. 
-oHis  psychological  development  had  lagged  decades  behind 
J'wae  industrial  development  of  the  country^ 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  individualist  could  no  longer  rely  upon  his  automatic 
"unalienable  rights"  and  his  fair  field  and  no  favor.  If  he 
was  a  farmer,  he  could  not  by  his  own  efforts  secure  just 
freight  rates,  fair  elevator  charges,  or  equitable  grading. 
The  individual  manufacturer  or  merchant  might  at  any 
time  be  overwhelmed  through  the  invasion  by  a  gigantic 
competitor  of  his  circumscribed  territory.  The  man  who 
would  not  sell  out  to  the  trust  might  be  crushed ;  the  work- 
ingman  who  would  not  join  a  strong  union  might  be  com- 
pelled. The  city  man  could  not  by  his  sole  efforts  protect 
himself  against  fire,  disease,  or  avoidable  accident.  He  could 
not  determine  the  quality  of  his  milk  or  water,  the  hours 
that  he  labored,  the  sanitary  condition  of  the  house  or  flat 

^  in  which  he  lived,  or  of  the  factory  in  which  he  worked. 
\  Individually  he  was  impotent,  and  he  was  still  an  indi- 
vidualist. 
j    The  monopolist,  the  big  speculator,  was  also  an  individ- 

_>■  ualist,  unabashed  and  unreconstructed.  Complacently  he 
sat  at  the  gate  taking  a  tribute  which  grew  as  millions  were 
added  to  the  population.  Into  his  hands  fell  the  usufruct 
of  science  and  invention.  Like  Pippa  he  sang,  "God's  in 
His  heaven ;  alPs  right  with  the  world."  The  big  gambler 
felt  that  he  was  an  honest  man,  who,  though  not  a  senti- 
mentalist, had  merely  played  "the  game."  The  big 
gambler  could  not  understand  the  hostility  of  the  little 
gamblers. 

The  little  gamblers  understood  it  no  better.  They  too 
believed  that  to  the  victors  in  the  industrial  struggle  belonged 
the  spoils,  and  yet  they  had  no  spoils.  Despite  themselves 
they  recognized  an  affinity  with  the  big  men,  an  identity 
in  ambition  and  in  point  of  view.  The  little  individual- 
ists, to  find  a  justification  for  their  enmity,  desperately 
sought  a  line  of  cleavage,  a  something  which  would  separate 
the  vicious  who  had  succeeded  from  the  virtuous  who  had 
failed.     Lawbreakers  accused  lawbreakers;   rebate  takers, 


THE  INDIVIDUALISTIC  SPIRIT  OF  AMERICA 


Q 


rebate  takers;  the  man  who  stole  an  invention  protested 
against  the  man  who  stole  a  legislature.  The  culminating 
evil  was  not  the  illegitimacy  of  the  baby,  but  its  unbabylike 
proportions. 

The  very  qualities  bred  into  him  by  the  conquest  made  it 
impossible  for  the  individualist  —  so  long  as  he  remained  an 
individualist  —  to  solve,  or  even  see,  his  economic  prob- 
lems. His  magnificence  estopped  him  from  complaint. 
His  optimism  made  him  still  hope  for  the  "luck"  which 
would  turn  his  way.  He  was  still  tolerant  of  abuses  and 
evils,  which  he  hoped  individually  to  avert.  The  individual- 
ist was  still  a  "practical"  man,  who  despised  paternalism, 
socialism,  anarchy,  and  governmental  interference,  and  who 
still  believed,  in  his  downright  practical  way,  that  if  you 
could  only  "jail"  a  few  millionaires,  the  road  to  the  con- 
tinent would  again  be  open.  The  "practical"  man  slh 
monopolies,  but  he  did  not  see  Monopoly.  He  saw  corrupt 
politicians,  but  he  did  not  see  Corruption.  He  saw  evils, 
but  he  did  not  see  Evil.  ,i K 

Even  to-day,  the  pure,  unadulterated, ^pre-Adamitic>in- 
dividualist  survives.  The  man  who  feverismyTniys  on  mar- 
gin  a  few  shares  of  "Sugar"  or  "Smelters,"  who  throws 
himself  into  a  hopeless  competition  with  a  trust,  who  seeks 
by  his  own  skill  to  escape  the  narrowing  circle  of  the  pre- 
emptors,  is  an  aborted  American  gambler.  But  the  man  is 
changing.  The  little  individualist,  having  asked  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  mote  of  individualism  from  his  brother's  eye, 
began  to  discover  an  identical  mote  in  his  own  eye.  Twee- 
dledum, having  accused  Tweedledee,  learned  that  they  were 
like-minded  brothers.  The  cure  of  individualism  was  not 
individualism. 

Moreover  there  came  to  be  raised  other  voices,  —  not  of 
stark  individualists,  —  and  the  demand  went  forth  for  re- 
construction and  regulation.  The  little  individualist,  recog- 
nizing his  individual  impotence,  realizing  that  he  did  not 


50  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


possess  within  himself  even  the  basis  of  a  moral  judgment 
against  his  big  brother,  began  to  change  his  point  of  view. 

<fee  no  longer  hoped  to  right  all  things  by  his  individual 
efforts.  He  turned  to  the  law,  to  the  government,  to  the 
state. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN   AND   HIS   STATE 

THE  political  philosophy  of  the  "  Fathers  "  might  have 
been  summed  up  in  the  phrase  "  the  less  government, 
the  better."  The  nation  was  born  of  a  rebellion  against 
King  and  Parliament,  and,  in  a  certain  sense,  against  gov- 
ernment in  general.  At  first  the  colonists  proclaimed  their 
rights  as  British  subjects  not  to  be  taxed  without  representa- 
tion, but  since  Birmingham,  Sheffield,  and  Leeds  were  un- 
represented, though  taxed,  this  constitutional  plea  fell  upon 
deaf  ears.  Then  the  colonists  appealed  "  to  the  opinion  of 
mankind,"  on  the  ground  that  as  men  they  had  natural 
rights  "  to  life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness."  Since 
"  all  governments  derive  their  just  powers  from  the  consent 
of  the  governed,"  the  Americans  retained  the  right  to  sever 
their  bonds  with  England. 

The  doctrine  so  enunciated,  though  revolutionary,  was 
not  new.  It  had  justified  the  English  Revolution  of  1688, 
as,  later,  it  was  to  justify  the  French  Revolution  of  1789. 
It  presupposed  the  original  and  residual  omnipotence  of  the 
individual,  who  had  been  endowed  by  nature,  or  by  "the 
King  of  Kings  and  Lord  of  all  the  Earth,"  with  unalienable 
rights,  which,  though  temporarily  surrendered  in  a  social 
compact  to  form  a  government,  were  still  retained  and  might 
be  enforced  against  an  unjust  or  tyrannical  government. 
The  author  of  the  Declaration,  like  many  of  his  contempo- 
raries, was  a  firm  believer  in  the  right  of  revolution,  and  he 
dreaded  a  strong  government,  which  might  infringe  the 
sacred  rights  of  the  individual. 

51 


. 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


These  sacred  rights  were  life,  liberty,  and  property,1  and 
the  greatest  of  these  was  property.  Property  gave  men  the 
right  to  vote,  to  hold  office,  to  serve  on  juries.  It  permitted, 
through  the  payment  of  a  bounty  in  war  time,  an  escape  from 
military  service.  It  enabled  the  rich  man  to  incarcerate  his 
poor  white  neighbor  for  debt,  or  to  buy  his  Negro  neighbor 
at  the  auction  block.  The  majority  of  offenses  were  infrac- 
tions of  the  right  of  property.  This  right,  held  to  be  in- 
vaded by  the  stamp  tax  and  tea  tax,  made  up  the  core  of  the 
unalienable  rights  with  which  man  was  "  endowed  by  his 
Creator."  It  is  this  emphasis  upon  the  natural,  unalien- 
able, uncontrollable  right  of  property  which  molded  our 
state  and  our  law,  and  Became  the  vital  fact  in  our  political 
development. 

It  was  the  philosophy  of  the  new  economic  world  then  com- 
ing into  being.  In  1776,  when  Jefferson,  a  leading  exponent 
of  this  political  anarchism,  was  writing  the  Declaration  of 
Independence,  a  quiet  Scotch  professor  issued  a  famous 
treatise  on  the  "  Wealth  of  Nations."  This  book  proclaimed 
that  in  economic  Hfe  the  greatest  good  of  all  resulted  upon  the 
whole  from  the  unimpeded  and  enlightened  egotism  of  each, 
and  it  proposed  the  restriction  of  state2  activity  to  the  nar- 
rowest limits. 

The  tenets  of  Adam  Smith,  exaggerated  and  distorted  by 
more  passionate  disciples,  became  the  gospel  of  the  rising 
manufacturing  class  in  England.  The  men  who  were  to 
revolutionize  Great  Britain  with  their  iron  foundries  and 
their  cotton  and  woolen  factories  wanted  a  free  hand. 
They  begged  relief  from  oppressive  state  taxes,  from  state- 

1  In  the  Declaration  of  Independence  the  third  in  this  trinity  of  rights 
was  designated  "the  pursuit  of  happiness." 

2  Where  I  use  the  word  "state"  in  the  sense  of  a  community  of  persons, 
living  in  a  circumscribed  territory,  under  a  permanent  political  organiza- 
tion, I  spell  the  word  with  a  small  "s."  Where  States  of  the  United 
States  are  intended,  I  use  a  capital  "S."  In  quotations  from  other  au- 
thors, I  do  not  apply  this  rule. 


THE   SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND  HIS  STATE 

granted  monopolies,  from  laws  which  kept  up  wages.  They 
wanted  the  unregulated  power  to  draft  into  industry  the 
men,  women,  and  pauper  children  of  agricultural  England,  to 
carry  them  to  the  alleys  of  new  manufacturing  towns,  to  keep 
them  employed  as  many  hours  as  " competition"  required.  | 
For  the  sake  of  business  the  state  must  be  dwarfed. 

In  the  Western  world  the  new  philosophy  of  a  weak  gov-   V 
ernment  and  a  strong  individual,  of  unalienable  rights  and  / 
non-interference,  was  echoed  approvingly.     The  philosophy  £  ' 
fitted  in  perfectly  with  the   conditions.     In  those  days  a 
strong   state    could    not    have    scientifically    directed    the 
exploitation  of  the  continent,  as  Japan  to-day  is  doing  so 
successfully    in    Korea.     The    unknown     continent    could 
not  have  been  curbed,  for  no  legislators  could  have  fore- 
seen the  development  which  millions  of  uncontrolled  ex- 
perimenters were  to  force.     That  he  might  go  into  the 
forest  without  his  hands  tied,  the  pioneer  desired  a  state 
too  weak  to  interfere,  but  strong  enough  to  protect  property. 
If,  by  the  hope  of  a  permanent  gain,  men  were  to  be  incited 
to  conquer  the  wilderness,  the  most  absolute  safeguards 
to  property  were  essential. 

So  the  Americans  starved  their  state,  and  made  of  it  the 
weak,  sprawling,  free-handed  thing  it  became.  The  old 
Confederation  pleased  the  early  individualists  because 
it  was  weak.  But  it  was  too  weak  to  live.  The  Consti-  , 
tution  also  provided  for  a  sufficiently  feeble  government,  ij 
The  House,  Senate,  and  President  held  each  a  checkrein 
upon  the  others;  the  Supreme  Court  held  one  upon  all; 
the  State  limited  the  Federal  government;  the  Federal 
government,  the  State;  while  between  the  two  grew  up 
vague  areas  of  unknown  jurisdiction,  "  twilight  zones," 
to  which  powerful  evildoers  repaired,  as  to-day  gamblers 
repair  to  an  interstate  river  to  avoid  the  jurisdiction  of 
neighboring  States.  The  state  —  the  entire  national,  State, 
and  municipal  government  —  was  hedged  in  by  restrictions, 


54  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ft 
set  against  itself,  and  weakened.     In  a  state  divided  against 
itself,  the  individual  flourished. 

Once  created,  the  government  was  left  to  itself.  It  was  an 
alarm-clock  government,  which,  properly  wound  up,  would 
run  automatically  and  awaken  the  individualistic  American 
at  the  right  moment.  It  was  a  duty  to  vote  once  so  often, 
and  the  citizens,  when  they  possessed  the  right,  voted. 
But  it  was  not  necessary  to  keep  one's  eyes  on  the  govern- 
ment.    The  American  eggs  were  not  in  that  basket. 

The  government  grew  up  complaisant.  It  had  little 
to  do.  The  Americans  did  not  want  to  fight.  They  de- 
sired no  entangling  alliances  or  foreign  policies.  They  had, 
or  thought  they  had,  no  internal  problems.  The  govern- 
ment was  there,  not  to  govern  the  people,  but  to  hold  them 
together.  Its  spirit  was  eternal  compromise.  Slavery 
was  undemocratic,  but  the  government  was  half  free  and 
half  slave  because  the  people  were.  The  equal  repre- 
sentation of  the  States  in  the  Senate  was  undemocratic, 
but  it  was  necessary  to  get  the  little  States  into  the  Union. 
The  Mexican  War,  the  Gadsden  Purchase,  the  Alaskan  Pur- 
chase, were  to  enlarge  the  continent ;  the  Monroe  Doctrine 
was  to  preserve  it.  The  goal  of  the  government  was  union 
of  any  sort,  and  it  attained  this  by  giving  all  citizens  a  right 
of  exploiting  the  continent,  as  an  indulgent  nurse  succeeds 
for  a  time  in  quieting  the  children  by  acceding  to  all  the 
demands  of  each. 

The  Federal  government  being  the  " business  agent' ' 
of  the  pioneer,  all  of  its  policies  converged  upon  the  one 
idea  of  permitting  the  uncontrolled  exploitation  of  natural 
resources.  Infant  industries  were  given  protective  tar- 
iffs; settlers  and  great  railroad  corporations  were  given 
public  lands;  inventors  were  accorded  patents.  The  free- 
dom of  the  national  domain  was  conferred  upon  sturdy  im- 
migrants, who  were  to  aid  in  the  Conquest  of  the  Conti- 
nent. 


THE  SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND  HIS  STATE  55 

The  government,  while  thus  encouraging  the  conquest 
of  the  continent,  scrupulously  refrained,  for  its  own  part, 
from  participating  in  the  resulting  gains.  The  nation 
largely  paid  for  the  trans-continental  lines,  but  private 
capitalists  reaped  the  profit,  including  exorbitant  rates 
for  the  transportation  of  the  mails.  The  government 
dwarfed  its  own  unprofitable  postal  service  rather  than 
lessen  the  income  of  express  companies.  Tariff  schedules  f 
were  for  the  "  revenue  only"  of  protected  manufacturers.  J/ 
The  whisky  taxes,  levied  during  the  Civil  War,  were  in- 
tentionally arranged  to  divert  most  of  the  proceeds  to 
distillers  and  whisky  speculators.  During  the  same  war, 
"the  boys  in  blue"  wore  expensive  shoddy  uniforms  and 
slept  under  rotting  shoddy  blankets  —  all  for  the  manufac- 
tured profits.  Rather  than  compete  with  private  contrac- 
tors, the  government  gave  out  its  work,  buying  its  supplies 
at  the  highest  market  price.  The  State,  like  the  nation, 
carried  out  a  policy  of  subsidy  to,  but  non-regulation  of, 
private  business;  while  the  city  equally  abjured  profits, 
and  became,  what  it  was  intended  to  be,  a  weak,  wasteful, 
exploited  public  corporation,  the  appanage  of  more  vig- 
orous and  powerful  private  corporations.  So  insanely 
solicitous  was  the  government  of  the  rights  of  all  profit 
makers,  that  it  offered  itself  for  exploitation  to  two  rival 
firms  —  the   dominating  political  parties  in  America. 

The  political  party  had  not  been  contemplated  by  "  the 
Fathers,"  who  objected  to  party  or,  as  they  called  it,  " fac- 
tion." The  federal  Constitution  did  not  mention  the  word, 
and  so  foreign  was  the  idea  to  Washington  that  he  united 
in  his  Cabinet  the  leaders  of  the  Federalist  and  Republi- 
can parties,  Hamilton  and  Jefferson,  men  more  divergent 
in  views  than  were,  later,  Lincoln  and  Jefferson  Davis. 
But,  because  of  the  very  weakness  of  the  government, 
because  of  that  intended  weakness  which  was  to  strengthen 
the    individual,    a    strong,    centralized,    extra-legal    power 


56  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

was  inevitable.  The  party  to  some  degree  cemented  a 
government  which,  otherwise,  would  have  been  too  dis- 
persed for  even  the  moderate  degree  of  efficiency  demanded. 
Moreover,  the  party  grew  naturally  out  of  our  current 
political  philosophy.  The  American  individualist  wanted 
power  vested  in  the  people  and  not  in  legislators,  who  soon 
came  to  be  regarded  as  intrinsically  dishonest  servants. 
But  the  American,  with  his  own  business  to  attend  to, 
had  neither  leisure  nor  inclination  for  the  drudgery  of  run- 
ning the  government.  Consequently,  the  making  of  nomi- 
nations, the  control  of  elections,  the  divisions  of  spoils,  and 
other  profitable  labor  came  to  be  the  work  of  a  despised 
ruler,  the  professional  politician.  The  government  of  the 
nation  passed  from  legislative  halls  and  executive  cham- 
bers to  the  unknown  meeting  places  of  party  bosses. 
The  election  became  subordinate  to  the  party  primary;  j 
the  voter,  to  the  ward  heeler.  The  party  became/ 
supreme.  ' 

The  politician  was  a  business  man,  for  politics  was  — 
and  is  —  business.  No  great  body  of  men  ever  continu- 
ously devoted  itself  to  a  non-honorable  service  without 
the  hope  of  monetary  reward.  Our  officials  were  poorly 
paid,  as  though  the  nation  showed  what  it  thought  of  its 
lawgivers  and  administrators  when  it  fixed  their  salaries. 
We  did  not,  like  the  Germans,  have  "  honor  offices,"  places 
which  though  unpaid  and  even  inconspicuous,  are  nevertheless 
so  honorific  that  high-grade  men  are  proud  to  serve.  In 
America  a  man  of  leisure  would  rather  have  become  Director 
of  a  local  Charitable  Society  —  which  brought  social  pres- 
tige—  than  be  Supervisor  of  Highways  or  School  Commis- 
sioner. When  after  1828  the  old-time  aristocrats  went 
out,  the  position  of  politician  —  of  caretaker  of  American 
liberties  —  was  offered  to  whomsoever  would  accept. 

Politics  was  business,  but  in  America  it  was  low-grade 
business,    like    saloon  keeping.     Not   offering    the    bound- 


THE  SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND   HIS  STATE  57 

less  possibilities  of  other  enterprises,  it  attracted  a  poorer 
quality  of  men.  In  De  Tocqueville's  day  an  American 
was  not  ordinarily  intrusted  with  public  business  until 
he  had  signally  failed  in  his  private  business.  Never- 
theless, out  of  this  unpromising  material  something  could 
be  made.  Politics  took  the  stones  rejected  by  business  and 
cemented  them  into  the  edifice  of  party. 

The  party  attracted  its  active  men  by  the  most  sordid 
rewards.  There  were  tens  of  thousands  of  places  and  a 
dozen  prospectively  grateful  seekers  for  each  office.  The 
spoils  system  was  incredibly  inefficient  and  demoralizing, 
but  by  providing  positions,  salaries,  and  munitions  of  war, 
it  strengthened  the  politician  and  fortified,  while  debauch- 
ing, the  party.  Moreover,  the  system  was  speciously  demo- 
cratic and  generally  popular.  The  average  man  believed 
in  "rotation  in  office."  He  believed  that  the  government 
service,  like  the  continent,  should  be  appropriated  for  pri- 
vate gain. 

As  population  and  wealth  increased,  the  government 
had  more  favors  to  bestow,  and  the  right  to  determine 
the  recipient  became  extremely  valuable.  The  bank, 
wanting  government  deposits;  the  newspaper,  clamoring 
for  city  advertising;  the  saloon,  the  brothel,  the  gambler, 
begging  protection,  —  were  willing  to  pay,  as  was  the  rail- 
road wanting  terminal  facilities,  the  public  service  corpo- 
ration wanting  franchises,  or  the  individuals  wanting  tax 
remissions. 

Nor  was  the  venality  of  politicians  harshly  condemned. 
Americans  were  too  tolerant,  too  humorous,  too  optimistic, 
above  all,  too  busy,  to  protest  overmuch.  We  had  no  tra- 
ditions of  public  service.  Moreover,  the  individualist 
really  believed  that  the  politician  was  worthy  of  his  hire. 
As  there  seemed  no  other  way  of  remunerating  the  de- 
spised but  visibly  useful  ward  heeler  (who  was  admittedly 
"not  in  business  for  his  health"),  he  was  allowed  to  "graft." 


'  w, 


58  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  " honest"  politician  grafted  moderately.     He  " stayed 
bought." 

The  public  —  the  great  mass  of  individualists  —  came 
to  regard  official  venality  as  a  plague,  which  could  be  abated 
but  not  ended,  like  the  depredations  of  rats,  birds,  and  bur- 
glars. The  most  practical  plan  was  for  each  citizen  to 
attend  to  his  own  business,  and  restrict  the  amount  of  pub- 
lic money  stolen  by  limiting  the  number  and  length  of 
legislative  sessions,  on  the  assumption  that  less  could  be 
taken  in  one  month  than  in  two.  The  citizen  was  satis- 
fied if  left  alone  —  as  he  was ;  if  his  cherished  personal 
rights  were  uninvaded.  He  was  " magnificent"  towards 
the  politicians.  He  was  quite  willing  to  spend  a  million 
and  a  half  for  a  million  dollars  of  improvements,  and  he 
was  willing  to  pay  for  his  police  protection  as  he  was  for 
his  railroad  rebate.  "We  pay,"  said  the  citizens,  honest 
and  dishonest,  "  but  we  get." 

Occasionally  the  politicians  became  so  flagrantly  extor- 
tionate, and  legislated  so  patently  against  the  public  in- 
terest, that  the  mass  of  individualists  forgot  for  a  moment 
their  farms  and  their  businesses,  their  franchises  and  their 
bonds,  and  went  in  to  "punish"  the  politician.  Sometimes 
the  outraged  public  succeeded;  sometimes  it  failed.  In 
the  long  run  it  always  failed.  For  after  these  electoral 
lynchings,  the  righteous  indignation  passed,  and  the  vo- 
ters went  back  to  their  businesses,  while  the  politician 
remained  at  his. 

Political  corruption  was  ineradicable  because  the  party 
was  extra-legal,  and,  therefore,  irresponsible.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  law  the  men  who  nominated  the  candidates  for 
office  were  a  group  of  citizens  assembling  for  private  pur-' 
poses.  The  whole  machinery  of  party,  from  the  local  pri- 
mary to  the  national  convention,  was  beyond  the  control 
of  the  voter.  Theoretically,  he  might  give  his  ballot  for 
any   candidate   for  mayor  or  governor;    practically,   the 


THE  SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND  HIS  STATE  59 

only  persons  with  any  chance  of  election  were  the  candi- 
dates of  two  opposing  parties.  In  the  choice  of  those 
candidates,  the  voter  had  no  rights  which  the  party  need 
respect.  In  the  district  primary,  his  vote  might  be  re- 
fused or  left  uncounted;  he  might  see  with  his  own  eyes 
bribery,  intimidation,  and  false  counting.  He  had  no  re- 
dress. The  honest  voter,  who  had  not  even  a  legal  right 
to  go  to  a  primary,  found  the  public  servants  of  the  nation 
selected  by  the  most  individualistic  person  of  all,  the  pro- 
fessional politician,  ruling  within  an  irresponsible  party. 

No  wonder  the  professional  politician  exploited  his  ad- 
vantage. He  too  had  hold  of  a  great  resource.  Able, 
aggressive,  determined,  he  had  fought  for  political  con- 
trol as  the  pioneer  had  fought  in  the  forest,  or  the  specu- 
lator in  the  Stock  Exchange.  The  city  boss  might  begin 
as  a  " bruiser' '  in  a  district.  He  might  serve  an  appren- 
ticeship at  ballot  stuffing,  repeating,  or  the  drudgery  of 
ignoble,  but  important,  political  work.  For  the  sake  of 
his  party  he  might  even  have  killed  his  man.  Such  a  leader 
was  as  straight  and  simple  an  individualist  as  the  man  who 
bought  franchises  or  the  voter  who  made  money  by  evad- 
ing the  building  laws.  The  political  boss  recognized  that 
he  was  not  a  "good"  man,  according  to  his  own  ethical 
ideal,  but  he  held  himself  equal  with  "  them  fellows "  of 
the  Stock  Exchange.  He  was  simply  in  a  business  un- 
regulated by  law  —  as  were  many  of  the  businesses  of  the 
voters.  Of  course,  his  particular  business  —  that  of  run- 
ning a  political  party  —  was  of  paramount  public  impor- 
tance, but  so  were  the  unregulated  businesses  of  many  f 
of  the  individualists  who  assailed  him.  Politics  was  busi- 
ness, and  the  politician  was  diligent  in  his  business. 

He  was  also  worldly-wise  in  his  business.  The  poli- 
tician had  the  strength  of  the  man  who  is  not  respected, 
of  the  man  excluded  from  the  top  and  finding  his, support 
at  the  bottom.    The  politician  was  not  above  his  trade 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

nor  superior  to  his  client.  The  party  —  the  gaping  tent 
of  the  politician  —  was  ^catholic  in  scope.  It  welcomed 
millionaire  and  pauper,  saint  and  sinner;  in  fact,  it  wel- 
\  corned  the  pliable  sinner  rather  more  effusively  than  the 
i  uncomfortable  saint.  A  man  who  would  be  kicked  out  of  a 
*  low  saloon  was  welcome  to  a  party  on  the  ground  of  his  vote. 
The  party  embraced  all  governments,  national,  State, 
territorial,  city,  county,  township,  school  district.  It 
appealed  to  all  ambitions.  It  attracted  the  man  who  as- 
pired to  St.  James  or  the  Supreme  Court  and  the  fellow 
who  begged  the  poor  privilege  of  picking  an  occasional 
pocket.  The  parties,  non-principled  and  compromising, 
as  was  the  state,  kept  down  problems  but  raised  issues.  \ 
They  clothed  themselves  with  all  the  passing  prejudices 
of  all  the  people.  They  were  all  things,  and  more,  to  all 
men.     They  became  the  ideal. 

It  was  inevitable.  A  man  had  to  cling  to  something, 
and  in  America,  where  traditions  were_weak  and  where 
men,  following  their  social  instincts,/became  "  joiners/ y 
the  temptation  to  cling  to  party  became  resistless.  Nor 
was  this  in  itself  bad.  The  party  gives  cohesion  and  unity 
to  like-minded  men,  and  professional  politicians  have 
their  place,  as  have  railway  conductors,  letter  carriers, 
and  paid  agents  of  charitable  societies.  But  party  loy- 
alty in  America  did  not  always  remain  subordinate  to  pa- 
triotism and  honor,  and  in  so  far  as  it  was  an  unthinking 
loyalty,  it  became  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  more  mer- 
cenary of  party  leaders.  After  1820,  this  loyalty  grew 
stronger  through  the  admission  of  millions  of  immigrants, 
grateful  for  the  franchise  and  for  their  party  membership, 
and  again,  after  1867,  an  added  impulse  was  given  to  an 
unthinking  party  loyalty  through  the  sudden  enfranchise- 
ment of  the  Negroes,  and  their  admission  to  the  Repub- 
lican  party. 

This   party   loyalty    found   expression   in   a   traditional 


THE   SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND  HIS  STATE  61 

voting,  which  obscured  contemporaneous  issues  and  en- 
rolled men  under  banners  which  they  could  not  read. 
The  Civil  War  blazoned  certain  ideas  upon  the  minds  of 
men.  The  North  "waved  the  bloody  shirt";  the  South 
rallied  to  the  cry  of  "negro  domination."  The  party  fanned 
these  dying  fires  into  flame,  and  appealed  with  skill  to  an 
enthusiasm  which  in  other  countries  would  have  attached 
itself  to  state,  king,  or  army. 

The  men  who  were  in  politics  for  money  built  upon 
this  loyalty,  which  was  their  asset,  as  a  farm,  mine,  or  fran- 
chise is  an  asset.  They  developed  their  property  and 
secured  it,  as  the  pioneer  and  the  preemptor  developed 
and  secured  their  properties.  The  professional  politi- 
cians soon  saw  that  they  must  be  protected  against  the 
competition  of  amateurs,  and  they  formulated  the  rules 
of  the  game  to  exclude  interlopers.  By  force  and  fraud 
at  primary  and  convention,  by  party  rules  strengthen- 
ing strategic  and  pivotal  points,  already  preempted,  by 
securing  for  themselves  immunity  from  criminal  prosecu- 
tion, by  developing  a  special  code  of  honor  and  esprit 
de  corps,  they  obtained,  subject  to  the  right  of  the  people 
to  rebel,  a  strong,  firm  grasp  on  party  and  government. 

When  the  frontier  was  reached,  and  the  pioneer  found  his 
way  to  the  continent  barred,  he  ceased  to  ignore  the  state 
and  turned  to  it  for  protection  against  the  preemptor. 
He  now  wished  to  do  collectively  what  he  could  no  longer 
do  by  his  feeble,  individual  might.  But  the  state,  though 
it  had  grown,  had  been  so  checked,  cramped,  confined, 
that  it  was  hardly  a  match  for  the  great  corporation, 
which  had  not  been  cramped  but  encouraged.  Between 
the  state  and  the  pioneer,  moreover,  lay  the  overgrown, 
unregulated,  individualistic  political  party  and  its  repre- 
sentative, brother  to  the  pioneer  and  brother  to  the  pre- 
emptor, the  individualistic  politician,   the  party  boss. 

The  attitude  of  the  American  had  changed  towards  the 


62  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

politician  as  it  had  changed  towards  the  preemptor.  The 
average  man  no  longer  had  quite  the  old  " magnificent' '  view 
of  the  politician  as  a  weed  hardly  worth  while  to  tear  up,  so 
small  was  its  influence  on  the  growing  corn.  He  was  no 
longer  so  tolerant  of  evils  which  had  grown  with  the 
country's  growth.  The  politician  was  a  dishonest  servant, 
who  should  be  forthwith  dismissed.  Hereafter  the  Ameri- 
can would  run  his  own  public  business. 

To  take  away,  however,  was  not  so  easy  as  to  give.  It 
had  been  part  of  the  political  game  always  to  preach  to  the 
people  that  the  party  existed  merely  as  their  servant  and 
by  their  leave.  But  the  people  had  been  losing  their  po- 
litical prerogative  through  non-user7,  and  the  more  they 
hugged  the  delusion  of  effective  self-rule,  the  more  strongly 
dki  the  corrupt  party  entrench  itself. 

/Moreover  the  business  of  political  leadership  had  be- 
come centralized.  Municipal  corruption  was  now  a  part 
of  State  corruption;  State  corruption,  a  part  of  national 
corruption.  There  was  always  a  man  "higher  up,"  often 
very  much  " higher  up."  Corruption  had  become  subtle, 
pervasive.  An  abler  type  of  man  had  gone  into  politics, 
restricting  the  potentialities  of  the  earlier,  bruiser  type, 
as  the  preemptor  had  restricted  those  of  the  pioneer.  The 
new  politician  was  perhaps  a  college-bred  man,  who  could 
talk  tactfully  of  the  eternal  verities.  He  enjoyed  unex- 
ceptionable social  connections  and  good  business  affilia- 
tions. Like  the  preemptor,  his  ally,  he  laid  under  tribute 
the  best  legal  and  administrative  talent.  Politics  became 
big  business,  and  it  assiduously  studied  the  methods  of  the 
still  Hgger  business  outside.  The  big  business  politician 
was  far  more  formidable  than  had  been  the  little  politi- 
cian who  had  preceded  him. 
'^A  still  higher  obstacle  was  to  be  thrust  between  the 
individualistic,  sovereign  American  and  his  "servant," 
the   political   party.    As   business   became   synthetic   and 


THE  SOVEREIGN  AMERICAN  AND  HIS  STATE    /  6j 

integrated,  as  the  railroads,  coal  mines,  banks,  trust  com- 
panies, and  insurance  companies  drew  closer  together,  poli- 
tics, which  had  grown  from  a  small  to  a  large,  independent 
business,  became  in  some  parts  of  America,  a  mere  branch 
in  a  still  larger,  integrated  business.  The  state,  which 
through  the  party  formally  sold  favors  to  the  large  corpora- 
tions, became  one  of  their  departments.  The  biggest  cli- 
ent bought  out  the  concern,  as  the  railroad  buys  up  the 
factory  which  once  sold  it  supplies.  The  weak  state, 
free  to  bestow  its  treasures  on  its  favorites,  was  controlled 
by  the  party;  the  party  was  controlled  by  the  ring;  the 
ring,  by  the  boss ;  the  boss,  by  the  trust.  The  petty  forms 
of  graft,  the  tribute  levied  on  vice,  crime,  saloons,  and 
holders  of  petty  rights  and  small  immunities,  persisted.. 
But  they  had  become  mere  by-products.  In  many  States 
the  fount  of  legislation,  the  wells  of  justice  were  controlled. 
Legislation  was  no  longer  bought,  but  owned.  The  big 
individualist,  the  giant  gambler,  had  gained  his  last  stra- 
tegic hold. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION 

IT  is  not  possible  to  set  an  exact  date  for  the  end  of  the 
conquest  of  the  continent.  Successive  eras  in  a  na- 
/  tion's  history  do  not  fit  nicely  like  the  flagstones  of  a  pave- 
ment, but  overlap,  and  the  future  is  born  before  the  past  is 
dead.  Even  to-day,  the  single-handed  grabbing  of  the 
period  of  the  conquest  occasionally  appears,  naked  and 
unashamed. 

/However,  we  may  somewhat  indefinitely  mark  off  the 
last  three  decades  of  the  nineteenth  century  as  a  transition 
Ss  period  in  America.  By  1869  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad 
had  narrowed  the  continent  to  a  week's  railroad  journey; 
by  1901  the  main  outlines  of  our  new  trust  system  had  be- 
come apparent.  Between  these  two  dates  the  period  of 
mere  expansion  was  merging  into  a  new  period,  of  which  the 
trust  was  typical  and  representative. 

In  1876,  when  the  Philadelphia  Centennial  Exhibition 
opened  its  doors,  America  reviewed  the  achievements  of  a 
hundred  years.  The  world  was  invited  to  compare  the  pack 
horse  with  the  locomotive,  the  sailboat  with  the  steam- 
boat, the  straggling,  struggling  colonies  with  the  compact, 
secure  States.  With  a  pardonable  pride  America  exhib- 
ited as  its  century's  accomplishment  the  Conquest  of  the 
Continent  and  the  Evolution  of  a  Nation. 

The  nation  had  been  born  in  the  West.  The  Virginian, 
Pennsylvanian,  Rhode  Islander,  commingling  in  the  Wes- 
tern territory,  had  lost  some  of  their  fealty  to  their  native 
States,  and  had  accustomed  themselves  to  a  common  loy- 
alty to  a  larger  political  unit.     The  Western  States,  created 

64 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC   REORGANIZATION  6§ 

out  of  a  national  territory  by  the  fiat  of  Congress,  could  not, 
like  the  thirteen  original  States,  claim  parenthood  of  the 
nation.  Their  artificial  boundaries  were  a  confession  that 
these  States  had  been  made,  not  born.  Their  problems 
were  national.  Their  domain  was  national.  Evolved  ii 
the  West  by  migrants,  American  and  European,  the  na- 
tional consciousness  was  a  fruit  of  the  conquest  of  the  land.*. 

Immigration  had  contributed  to  the  same  end.  An  ethnic 
amalgamation  of  many  stocks  proceeded  at  an  unprece- 
dentedly  rapid  rate.  Under  the  free,  buoyant  spirit  of 
America,  the  Irish  peasant,  the  English  farm  laborer,  the 
German  refugee,  became  more  American  than  the  Americans. 
Peoples  estranged  for  centuries  in  Europe  knew  but  slight 
antagonism  in  the  Western  land.  The  native  tongue,  the 
native  customs,  the  traditional  methods  of  thinking  and 
acting,  were  forgotten  by  the  sons  when  not  abandoned  by 
the  fathers.  Intermarriage,  the  Anglicization  and  abrasion 
of  foreign  names,  above  all  an  assimilation  in  language, 
dress,  and  methods  of  making  and  spending  money,  reduced 
all  the  peoples  to  one  almost  uniform  mass.  The  gratitude 
of  these  immigrants  attached  to  Nation,  not  to  State.  A 
nationalism  arose,  and  was  tried  out  during  the  Civil  War. 

The  building  of  a  nation  was  not  the  only  fruit  of  our 
first  hundred  years  of  independence.  Wealth,  also,  we 
had  achieved.  The  continent,  wrested  from  nature,  had 
been  converted  by  a  century  of  intense  labor  into  a  vast, 
complex,  delicate,  wealth-creating  tool.  Our  industrial 
organization  had  attained  a  high  degree  of  efficiency.     The 

1  In  America  nationalism  and  patriotism  attach  themselves  to  soil, 
which  is  one  and  indivisible,  and  not  to  people,  which  is  diverse.  We  claim 
no  miraculous  descent  and  no  Levitical  pureness  of  blood,  but  rather  ro- 
bustly pride  ourselves  on  being  more  mongrel  than  other  nations.  Our 
blood  is  stirred  less  by  Lexington  and  Antietam  than  by  the  joined  shares 
of  a  wide-stretching  continent.  So  our  dithyrambic  Fourth  of  July  eu- 
logies of  the  American  nation  describe  its  habitat  as  "bounded  on  the  north 
by  the  Aurora  Borealis,"  etc.  / 


66  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

product  of  our  labor,  thanks  to  the  fertility  of  the  continent, 
was  greater  than  anywhere  in  Europe.  Our  railroads  were 
more  effective  (as  they  were  also  more  necessary)  than  those 
of  any  other  country,  and  our  cities,  with  all  their  evils, 
were  among  the  most  wonderful  workshops  in  the  world. 
Our  farms,  though  wastefully  and  unscientifically  conducted, 
produced  more  in  toto  than  did  those  of  any  other  land. 
The  country  was  filling  with  new  millions  of  hard-working, 
easy-spending  men,  gaining  steadily  in  knowledge  and  the 
ability  to  produce  and  intelligently  consume.  Our  labor 
was  being  crystallized  into  factories,  cities,  machines,  rail- 
roads, bridges,  wharves,  and  other  productive  capital,  and 
we  were  making  our  production  ever  more  efficient  by  mak- 
ing it  more  indirect ;  by  creating  tools  to  produce  tools  to 
produce  goods ;  by  delaying  the  consumption  of  wealth  to 
make  that  consumption  greater.  American  prosperity  was 
assured. 

In  the  conquest  of  the  continent  America  had  become  a 
wealthy  and  powerful  nation,  with  a  strong  national  con- 
sciousness. America  had  prospered.  Nevertheless,  when 
the  traveler  from  Europe  turned  from  the  records  of  ma- 
terial progress,  displayed  at  the  exhibition,  and  cast  his 
eyes  over  the  back  yard  of  America,  he  discovered  that  the 
progress  of  growth  had  not  been  unaccompanied  by  an  ac- 
cumulation of  waste  products.  Out  of  the  American's  con- 
test with  the  wilderness  had  developed  certain  barriers  to 
future  progress :  a  scarred  and  wasted  continent ;  a  brick- 
and-mortar  substitute  for  a  city ;  an  unregulated  and  anar- 
chic industry;  a  city  slum;  and  an  appalling  and  shame- 
less political  corruption. 

The  continent,  incalculably  fertile  and  wealth-giving 
though  it  was,  showed  signs  of  a  century  of  rape.  Regions 
formerly  blessed  with  a  plentiful  rainfall  had  become  arid, 
and  rivers  which  once  kept  their  measured  beds  now  al- 
ternated between  trickling,  unfructifying  streams  and  tor- 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION  67 

rential  floods.  Everywhere  were  the  evil  results  of  the 
destruction  of  forests,  the  denudation  of  soils,  the  im- 
poverishment of  rivers,  the  annihilation  of  animal  life,  and 
the  insensate  wasting  of  natural  resources  by  men  who 
knew  no  responsibility,  and  who  in  the  midst  of  a  self-cre- 
ated desolation  were  astounded  at  their  own  moderation. 
The  continent,  which  had  evoked  the  spirit  which  meant 
its  ravishing,  was  now  like  a  nursery,  with  its  broken  toys 
strewn  upon  the  floor. 

Like  the  continent,  the  city  had  been  scarred  by  the  same 
waste  and  preemption,  the  same  insensate  optimism,  the 
same  utter  lack  of  prevision.  Cities  destined  to  be  the 
home  of  multitudes  had  grown  up  with  the  abandon  of  petty 
villages.  Streets  had  been  made  narrow;  parks  had  been 
forgotten ;  houses  had  been  built  upon  the  theory  of  pack- 
ing boxes ;  drainage,  water  supply,  fire  protection  —  every- 
thing had  been  left  to  chance  and  the  play  of  the  instinct  for 
gain.  The  theory  of  the  American  city  was  that  of  the  pio- 
neer's camp.  People  were  there  for  business.  Their  living 
conditions  must  work  out  themselves. 

The  citizen  of  1876  contentedly  voted  for  crude  political 
bosses,  as  his  son  to-day  votes  for  bosses  of  a  more  refined 
type.  The  citizen  of  1876  contentedly  rode  in  rainy  weather 
on  the  roof  of  a  crowded  horse  car,  as  his  son  to-day  rides 
on  the  outside  platform  of  an  overfilled  electric  car.  The 
citizen  of  1876  contentedly  died  of  typhoid,  because  his 
city  drank  water  befouled  by  other  cities.  Then,  as  now, 
municipal  heedlessness  consigned  thousands  of  citizens  to  un- 
necessary deaths  from  tuberculosis.  The  filthiness  of  Ameri- 
can towns  was  a  stench  in  the  nostrils,  and  the  houses, 
tenements,  and  factories,  constructed  under  a  regime  of 
unregulated  individualism,  were  a  menace  to  health  and  an 
affront  to  decency.  The  American  city,  destined  to  become 
the  leader  in  our  new  democracy,  had  suffered  most  griev- 
ously from  the  spirit  of  the  conquest.     So  onerous  was  the 


68  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

burden  of  brick  and  mortar  that  a  conflagration,  which 
wiped  out  a  whole  city,  was  often  an  unmixed  blessing. 

American  business  —  reckless  and  implacable  —  showed 
even  more  the  traces  of  a  barbaric  immoderation  than  did 
forest  and  city.  To  only  the  slightest  extent  did  the  or- 
ganized national  consciousness  determine  what  should  be 
produced  and  sold,  or  how  the  human  resources  of  the  nation 
should  be  industrially  utilized.  Our  psychological  and 
moral  perceptions  and  our  ponderous  legal  machinery  had 
not  kept  pace  with  our  money-winged,  profit-dreaming  busi- 
ness development.  The  industrially  strong  had  been  given 
what  they  wanted ;  the  industrially  weak  might  keep  what 
they  could  hold  against  the  subsidized  strong.  The  small 
investor  had  a  legal  remedy,  but  little  real  protection. 
The  consumer  had  less.  The  competitor  had  none.  As 
for  the  worker,  male  or  female,  adult  or  child,  skilled  or  un- 
skilled, he  had  the  right  of  a  freedom  of  contract,  but  was 
not  always  himself  economically  free.  He  had  the  protec- 
tion of  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  but  the  supply  of  his 
labor  was  artificially  stimulated.  In  1876  —  as  now  —  the 
American  Commonwealths  were  far  behind  the  leading 
countries  of  Europe  in  laws  regulating  hours  of  labor,  con- 
ditions of  work,  the  prevention  of  accidents ;  in  laws  regu- 
lating truck  stores,  sweat  shops,  the  employment  of  women, 
^he  employment  of  children. 

While  some  American  manufacturers  had  been  protected 
against  the  competition  of  foreign  manufacturers,  our  resi- 
dent laborers  had  not  been  protected  against  the  competition 
\  of  European  laborers.  Immigration  had  brought  in  nation 
after  nation,  each  with  a  lower  standard  of  living.  Whether 
the  ultimate  effect  was  good  or  bad,  whether  the  immediate 
burden  upon  the  city  toiler  was  tolerable  or  intolerable,  the 
nation  had  not  cared.  The  labor  market  might  be  glutted 
or  anaemic,  the  city  tenements  and  shanties  might  be  crowded, 
the  political  machine  might  already  be  creaking  under  the 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION  69 

weight  of  illiterate  and  inarticulate  voters.  Nevertheless  if 
immigrants  came  —  or  could  be  made  to  come  —  they  must 
be  admitted ;  if  admitted,  they  must  be  rudely  digested,  or 
at  least  devoured.  They  must  pay  their  way  to  an  army* 
of  little  " grafters"  and  to  the  great  respectable  tribute-takers 
of  city  and  country.  Unrestricted  immigration  aided  an 
ultra-rapid  development.  It  pyramided  production.  We 
viewed  the  dense  forests  of  foreigners,  as  we  viewed  the  preg- 
nant continent,  as  a  boundless,  exploitable  resource.  Into 
our  anarchic  industry  we  poured  these  millions,  adults  and 
children  alike,  just  as  in  working  the  Maine  woods  we  felled 
the  saplings,  the  growing  children  of  the  forest,  the  more 
readily  to  get  at  the  full-grown  trees.  There  was  no  gain 
in  it  except  the  saving  of  a  little  time,  but  a  minute  to-day 
was  more  than  a  forest  or  a  generation  to-morrow.  ***'' 

It  had  been  feared  by  European  observers,  even  as  late  as 
the  fifties,  that  the  wide  dispersion  of  the  early  Americans 
would  result  in  a  reversion  to  barbarism.  No  such  regression 
took  place.  We  always  carried  with  us  a  certain  fringe  of 
backwoods  savagery  (which  still  persists  in  remote  mountain 
districts),  but  the  main  current  of  American  life  moved  far 
too  swiftly  to  permit  of  intellectual  or  moral  stagnation. 
Nevertheless  a  barbarism,  different  in  type  from  that  of  the 
backwoods,  did  parallel  the  civilizing,  pioneering  movement. 
With  the  growth  of  America  grew  the  slum. 

Our  worst  slums  are  not  so  hopeless  as  the  slough  of 
Whitechapel,  or  the  horrid  slums  of  English  towns,  where 
literally  rot  the  descendants  of  Crecy  and  Poitiers.  The 
poverty  of  even  our  most  destitute  negroes  is  opulence  com- 
pared with  the  bottomless  misery  of  south  Italy  or  Russia. 
The  enormous  wealth  of  the  continent,  and  our  long  immu- 
nity from  serious  foreign  war  or  the  fear  of  war,  lessened  our 
pauperism  and  held  up  even  our  lowest  standards  of  living 
to  a  point  where  they  annually  attracted,  and  still  attract, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  immigrants.     Many  of  our  poorer 


J 


70  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

city  wards  are  not  slums  at  all  in  the  European  sense.  They 
are  not  cesspools  of  society,  into  which  the  hopeless  human 
refuse  inextricably  sinks,  but  are  rather  trying-out  stations, 
out  of  which  are  promoted  rising  immigrants,  who  have  sur- 
vived the  corroding  experiences  of  the  first  years  of  American 
life. 

Nevertheless,  we  have  slums,  pauper  slums  and  criminal 
slums,  the  heirlooms  of  our  sweaty  haste,  our  headless,  soul- 
less egotism,  our  fragile,  apologetic,  emasculated  state.  The 
slum,  like  the  grim,  malevolent  ogre  of  the  fairy  tale,  was 
feasted  with  children,  ground  out,  destroyed,  and  corrupted 
in  their  weakness,  and  thrown  aside  in  adolescence,  like  a 
dry  orange.  To  the  slum  came  eventually  the  men  who  were 
maimed  in  factories,  in  mines,  on  railroads,  and  could  not 
recover  the  cost  of  crutch  or  bandage.  To  the  slum  came  the 
wives  and  babes  of  men  killed  outright  in  industry,  or  poi- 
soned systematically,  and  for  profit,  by  advertised  foods 
and  medicines.  The  state,  the  natural  representative  of  the 
people,  fed  the  slums.  It  did  not  interfere  when  women 
staggered  under  excessive  tasks ;  when  old  men  were  thrown 
out  upon  the  pavement ;  when  young  girls,  unable  to  sup- 
port themselves  decently,  sold  themselves  outright  to  in- 
decency; when  strikes  broke  out  and  men  were  starved  or 
shot  or  bayoneted,  or  in  their  turn  broke  the  arms  of  strike- 
breakers, or  set  fire  to  their  employers'  buildings.  The 
state  had  no  eyes,  senses,  dimensions.  It  was  nothing  but 
a  paralytic  old  man  with  a  club. 

The  serenely  stupid  indifference  of  the  state,  the  granting 
of  a  free  hand  to  all  the  money-makers  —  gamblers,  specu- 
lators, jerry-builders,  franchise  grabbers,  employers  of  child 
labor,  —  to  the  whole  confraternity  of  "grafters"  — helped 
to  muster  the  ignorant  and  despoiled  denizens  of  the  slum. 
The  turbulence  of  business  gave  the  slum  its  quota  of  crip- 
ples, tramps,  and  paupers;  the  savage  intensification  of 
factory  labor  created  thousands  of  brutalized  workers,  and 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION  71 

tens  of  thousands  of  bloodless  persons,  incapable  of  further 
labor.  Our  slums  became  filled  with  sick  who  need  never 
have  been  sick;  with  derelicts  who  need  never  have  been 
abandoned.  The  slum  became  the  abiding  place  of  "free 
and  equal/ '  but  superfluous,  Americans. 

In  these  crowded,  squalid  quarters,  with  high  tenements 
towering  above  dirty,  narrow  streets,  lived  the  poor,  the 
wretched,  the  ill,  the  dissolute,  the  criminal.  Flimsy  parti- 
tions separated  families  from  all  corners  of  the  globe.  The 
congestion  aided  in  the  spread  of  vice  and  infectious  disease. 
In  reeking  tenements,  in  horrible  streets  and  mews  and  alleys, 
alcoholism,  dissipation,  consumption,  and  poverty  bred  a 
weakly  race,  while  thousands  of  wretches,  food  for  the  jail, 
almshouse,  and  brothel,  were  thrown  out  as  unconsidered 
waste  products.  Upon  this  festering,  weltering  mass  of 
sodden  humanity,  the  offspring  of  a  careless  society,  the 
frontie.  no  longer  exercised  an  attraction.  There  was  no 
gatewiy  from  the  criminal  slum.  The  valves  turned  in- 
ward, to  allow  the  seeping  in  of  the  worsted  in  the  battle. 

A  philosophic  traveler  might  well  have  turned  his  back 
upon  the  "exhibits"  at  Philadelphia  to  wonder  how  the 
slum  had  found  its  home  in  the  nation  "conceived  in  lib- 
erty," in  a  nation  of  free  and  equal  men  with  free  access 
to  a  continent.  A^dyet^jhe^jinderworld  of  America  was 
but  part  of  the  price  of  our  continental  adventure.  The 
recklessness  of  the  slum  dweller,  bred  of  the  recklessness  of 
the  state;  the  sullen  discontent  of  men  whose  vision  was 
bounded  by  mean  streets  and  mean  sights  —  this  slum- 
stamped,  seamy  side  of  American  life  was  but  the  reverse  of 
the  daring,  optimistic  spirit  which  had  conquered  the  con- 
tinent. The  brilliant,  imaginative  impulse  of  the  conquest, 
that  impulse  which  had  felled  the  trees,  ravaged  the  forests, 
built,  as  by  magic,  the  instantaneous  cities,  ground  up,  or 
evolved,  the  incoming  millions,  turned  the  energies  of  a  na- 
tion and  the  resources  of  a  continent  into  an  apotheosis  of 


72  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  individual  —  that  all-conquering  impulse  had  ended  in- 
gloriously  in  the  slum,  the  nadir  of  modern  life.  The  indi- 
vidualist, conquering  the  primeval  wilderness,  had  erected 
upon  the  cleared  land  a  city  wilderness,  an  overgrown,  tan- 
gled, rank,  and  morass-filled  forest  of  distorted  and  dying 
human  plants  of  all  countries,  of  all  natures,  ill-assorted, 
struggling  for  a  dwarfed  life  and  —  poisonous. 

It  had  not  been  entirely  unforeseen.  From  the  first  the 
I  conquest  of  the  continent,  and  the  triumphant,  ruthless 
materialism  which  it  evoked,  had  aroused  an  opposition 
from  within  the  nation.  A  thousand  dissidents  had  risen  in 
rebellion  against  the  crudities,  brutalities,  and  immoralities 
of  the  conquest.  Amid  the  shrill  clamor  of  money-making 
individualists  had  been  heard  the  low  minor  note  of  protest. 

Some  of  this  opposition  came  from  quiet  stay-at-homes, 
who,  loving  an  orderly  existence,  could  not  abide  pioneers, 
gamblers,  or  pushing  business  adventurers.  "  These  men," 
says  a  great  New  England  divine,  speaking  of  the  early  nine- 
teenth century  pioneers,  "  cannot  live  in  regular  society. 
They  are  too  idle,  too  talkative,  too  passionate,  too  prodi- 
gal, and  too  shiftless,  to  acquire  either  property  or  char- 
acter. They  are  impatient  of  the  restraints  of  law,  religion, 
and  morality;  grumble  about  the  taxes,  by  which  rulers, 
ministers,  and  schoolmasters  are  supported,  and  at  last, 
under  the  pressure  of  poverty,  the  fear  of  a  jail,  and  the 
consciousness  of  public  contempt,  leave  their  native  places, 
and  betake  themselves  to  the  wilderness."  * 

It  was  not,  however,  reserved  to  New  England  divines  to 
protest  against  the  pioneer,  nor  against  the  stark  material- 
istic and  individualistic  spirit  of  America.  Great  moral 
and  religious  movements  were  in  conflict  with  that  dominant 
spirit.  Transcendentalism,  idealism,  perfectionism,  the  cult 
of  a  Utopian  socialism,  swept  over  the  land.     Communistic 

1  Dwight,  Timothy,  ''Travels  in  New  England  and  New  York."  Lon- 
don, 1823. 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION  73 

experiments  were  tried  at  Brook  Farm,  Icaria,  and  elsewhere. 
The  Mormons,  united  by  a  newly  revealed  religion,  de- 
veloped Utah,  without  relying  upon  the  individualism  of 
other  pioneers.  Men  arose  in  protest  against  the  ugliness 
and  callousness  of  American  exploitation. 

For  the  most  part  these  protestants  were  ineffective. 
The  man  of  refined  taste,  who  demanded  that  material  prog- 
ress should  be  beautiful,  had  no  message  for  his  highly 
inartistic  generation.  The  average  American  of  1840  did 
not  object  to  the  smoke  of  factory  towns,  nor  to  the  defacing 
of  sylvan  glens  by  advertisements  of  malaria  cures  and  plug 
tobacco.  He  had  little  understanding  for  purely  artistic 
or  philanthropic  plans,  and  even  the  vast  moral  weight  op- 
posed to  our  theft  of  Mexico's  land  could  not  divert  America 
from  her  task  of  individualistically  exploiting  a  continent,  K 
Waves  of  religious  and  ethical  emotion  rose  and  fell,  but 
they  no  more  decided  the  course  of  America  than  the  Sunday 
sermon  against  greed  determines  the  price  at  which  the 
monopolist  sells  on  a  Monday.  All  these  early  moral  move- 
ments —  all  but  one  —  failed  because  they  lacked  confirma- 
tion by  economic  necessity.  The  voices  of  the  reformers 
were  drowned  in  the  cannon  of  1861.1 

It  was  not  these  reformers,  but  a  quite  different  group 

1  The  one  exception  to  the  rule  that  the  purely  moral  movements  were 
without  much  influence  was  abolition,  a  moral  movement  directed  against 
the  crassest  and  most  archaic  form  of  human  exploitation.  This  excep- 
tion, however,  was  only  apparent.  It  was  because  slavery  was  archaic 
and  uneconomical ;  it  was  because  abolition  was  not  only  a  moral,  but  also 
an  economic,  movement,  in  harmony  with  (and  not  opposed  to)  the  con- 
quest of  the  continent,  that  it  was  so  transcendentally  successful.  Free 
settlers  clamored  for  free  land.  The  antislavery  movement,  which  in 
1831  found  few  followers  (because  there  was  still  an  empty  continent 
before  us),  became  a  potent  force  in  1860,  when  the  final  disposition  of  our 
available  territory  was  within  sight.  Upon  the  Northern  side  were  not 
only  the  uncompromising  Garrisonians  and  other  idealists,  but  also  the 
settlers,  the  railroads,  the  corporations,  needing  more  land.  The  fierce, 
conquering,  individualistic  spirit,  which  was  overrunning  the  continent, 
armed  the  Federal  soldiers  in  their  assault  upon  the  Confederacy. 


74  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

men ;  it  was  not  the  generous  aspirations  of  transcenden- 
talists,  but  motives  of  a  far  tougher  fiber,  which  took  us  out 
of  the  old  world  of  planlessness,  unregulated  grabbing,  and 
unrestrained  wasting.  Not  men  with  a  new  moral  ideal, 
but  financiers  anxious  for  profits,  put  an  end  to  the  old 
single-handed  individualism.  Brook  Farm,  a  community 
built  upon  ideals,  failed ;  Gary,  a  city  made  to  order,  a  city 
planned  for  profits,  succeeded. 

It  could  not  have  been  otherwise.  When  we  struck  the 
frontier,  we  were  still  in  the  full  momentum  of  a  profit-seek- 
ing individualism.  We  were  still  listening  to  the  cry,  "Go 
West,  young  men,"  when,  suddenly,  to  our  surprise  —  there 
)as  no  West.  The  headlessness,  the  low  social  pressure, 
the  waste  and  brutality  of  the  old  period  could  not  at  once 
give  way  to  socialization.  What  followed  was  the  monop- 
oly age,  the  age  of  utilization.  Its  specific  feature  was 
the  trust ;  its  typical  class  the  plutocracy.  It  represented  the 
)ld  individualism  of  America,  upon  which  was  grafted  the 
new  ideal  of  continental  reorganization. 

What  was  necessary  was  to  supplement  the  mere  appro- 
priation of  resources  by  their  wiser  utilization.  It  was 
necessary  to  cultivate  intensively,  now  that  mere  extensive 
culture  had  struck  against  geographical  obstacles.  Instead 
of  waste,  economy  became  the  order  of  the  day.  There 
was  money  in  by-products  —  in  cottonseed  oil,  in  coal-tar 
derivatives,  in  the  utilization  of  the  whole  hog.  There  was 
money  in  a  standardization  of  plants,  of  product,  of  labor. 
There  was  money,  above  all,  in  monopoly.  The  era  of  low- 
ering prices  gave  way  to  an  era  of  rising  prices ;  the  era  of 
industrial  anarchy,  to  an  era  of  industrial  subordination. 
Fighting  for  one's  own  hand  became  cooperation  for  the 
sake  of  profits.  From  top  to  bottom  American  industry 
was  in  process  of  reorganization. 

In  this  reorganization  a  new  spirit  entered  business.  It 
was  an  analytical  and  an  objective  spirit.     Every  industrial 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION  75 

operation,  from  the  laying  of  a  brick  to  the  building  of  a  sub- 
way, was  divided  into  its  constituent  parts,  subjected  to  a 
minute  and  searching  financial  analysis,  and  reconstructed 
on  a  more  paying  basis.  The  rule  of  hand  gave  way  to  busi- 
ness methods  of  scientific  precision.  The  statistician  took 
his  place  in  the  office,  and  the  accountant,  the  business 
engineer,  and  the  business  statesman  introduced  a  totally 
new  efficiency  into  industry.  The  chemist  in  business  gave 
a  new  meaning  to  the  search  for  by-products,  discovering  a 
continent  greater  than  that  of  the  pioneer.  The  inventor 
opened  up  new  sources  of  wealth,  and  the  forester  and  the 
agricultural  expert  showed  how  conservation  meant  increased 
production,  how  you  could  get  more  from  your  land  while 
keeping  more  in  it,  how  a  sanely  intensive  conduct  of  in- 
dustry could  give  a  greater  product  with  less  effort  than 
did  the  former  wasteful  and  sprawling  extensive  conduct  of 
business. 

While  chemists,  engineers,  inventors,  statisticians,  agri- 
culturalists, foresters,  factory  organizers  all  contributed  to 
the  reorganization  of  American  business,  the  greatest  con- 
tribution was  that  of  the  financiers,  of  the  trust  builders. 
These  men,  the  true  representatives  of  the  new  era,  were  yf 
quantitative  gentlemen,  who  held  inventors,  scientists,  an& 
factory  engineers  in  the  leash  of  their  figures.     It  was  these\ 
financiers  who  created  the  trust,  the  typical  expression  of  \ 
the  plutocratic  reorganization.  / 

The  trust,  at  its  best,  represented  a  more  economical  and 
more  profitable  form  of  business  organization  than  did  the 
former  competing  business.  It  was  made  up  by  the  union 
of  many  thousands  of  little  fortunes,  by  the  cooperation  of 
many  individualistic  manufacturers,  who  had  not  wished 
to  sell  to  the  trust,  and  had  capitalized  their  reluctance  at  a  J 
high  figure.  The  trust,  though  in  certain  respects  antisocial, 
did  at  least  prevent  some  of  our  earlier  reckless  wastes.  To 
a  certain  extent  it  saved  needless  duplications  of  plants,  the 


(t 


76  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


useless  sending  of  cross  freights,  the  absurd  vagaries  of  a 
boundless,  competitive  advertising,  the  unnecessary  com- 
plications of  an  industry  with  a  hundred  heads  and  a  hun- 
dred pairs  of  flapping  and  entangling  arms. 

At  its  best,  moreover,  the  trust  tended  to  bring  order  out 
of  chaos;  to  substitute  prevision  and  a  broad  outlook  for 
the  taking  of  a  chance  and  a  narrow  view  of  the  situation. 
It  was  more  likely,  because  better  able,  to  save  to-day,  to 
have  to-morrow.  It  could  better  preserve  monopolized  nat- 
ural resources  against  the  time  when  depletion  would  be 
imminent.  It  could  keep  down  prices  to  a  reasonably 
extortionate  level.  The  trust,  safely  entrenched,  was  not 
driven  by  the  fearful,  individualistic  competition  in  which 
mercy,  decency,  and  even  foresight,  might  place  a  competitor 
hors  de  combat. 

Finally,  the  trust  could  refrain,  if  it  wished,  from  many 
foolish,  short-sighted  and  antisocial  actions.  It  could  af- 
ford the  long  view ;  it  could  even  afford  an  ultimately  prof- 
itable decency.  The  trust,  especially  at  its  worst,  with 
its  unfair  competition,  its  tyranny,  its  over-charges,  and  its 
political  corruption,  was  by  no  means  the  last  word  in  indus- 
J  trial  development,  but  it  was  superior  to  what  had  preceded 
\j  j  it,  and  it  was  necessary.  Because  we  could  not  escape  from 
our  former  utter  planlessness  and  anarchy  except  by  reor- 
ganizing our  whole  business  (and  allowing  acquisitive  and 
imaginative  men  to  make  billions  out  of  the  process),  we 
were  obliged  to  go  over  to  a  highly  centralized  trust  system 
of  production.  We  were  obliged  to  call  in  a  receiver  to  take 
charge  of  our  assets.  We  were  compelled  to  raise  up  despots 
to  put  an  end  to  the  civil  strife  in  our  industry. 

It  fares  ill  with  a  population  when  it  is  obliged  in  its  own 
defense  to  call  in  mercenaries,  military  or  financial.  We 
have  paid  a  high  price  for  the  reorganization  of  our  business, 
and  everywhere  in  our  industry,  in  our  government,  in  our 
organs  of  public  opinion,  we  find  the  traces  of  a  swaggering 


THE  PLUTOCRATIC  REORGANIZATION     ,  77 

plutocracy  which  has  claimed  its  reward  as  it  performed  its 
work  —  and  faster.  To-day  our  problems  are  enormously 
complicated  by  the  presence  in  our  midst  of  a  powerful  and 
cohering  plutocracy,  with  vast  power  and  antidemocratic 
temptations. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY 

FOR  a  long  time,  disliking  the  idea  of  a  plutocracy,  we 
simply  denied  its  existence.  We  informed  our  foreign 
critics  that  our  great  fortunes  were  evanescent,  accidental, 
due  to  temporary  disturbances  in  a  permanently  equalizing 
economic  process.  We  tried  to  believe  that  there  were  but 
three  generations  from  shirt-sleeves  to  shirt-sleeves.  To- 
day, however,  the  evidence  is  overwhelming  that  American 
fortunes  do  not  vanish,  but  grow  ever  larger.  Our  plutocracy 
can  no  longer  be  concealed. 

What  is  this  American  plutocracy?  It  is  not,  as  the 
Century  Dictionary  defines  plutocracy,  "a  class  ruling  by 
virtue  of  its  wealth,"  for  it  is  at  most  a  class  in  process,  and 
its  rule  is  only  partial,  undefined,  and  unadmitted.  Our 
American  plutocracy  is  rather  a  more  or  less  fluctuating 
group  of  very  wealthy  men,  loosely  united  (primarily  by 
pecuniary  bonds)  who,  through  their  wealth  and  prestige, 
and  through  the  allegiance  of  like-minded  but  poorer  men, 
exert  an  enormous,  if  not  preponderating,  influence  over 
industry,  politics,  and  public  opinion.  ** 

This  plutocracy  does  not  aspire,  and  dare  not  aspire,  to 
personal  rule.  There  is  a  tenacious  political  myth  that  our 
millionaires  aim  at  the  subversion  of  all  constitutional  guar- 
antees, and  at  the  creation  of  an  American  Empire  upon  the 
ruins  of  our  present  republic.  But  our  over-moneyed  men 
do  not  indulge  such  romantic  and  belated  notions.  True, 
an  occasional  millionaire  succumbs  to  the  pitiful  ambition 
of  " founding  a  family,"  and  accordingly  ties  up  his  estate 
for  a  generation  or  two.     True,  there  are  sons  and  daughters 

78 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  79 

and  sons-in-law  —  young  and  decorative  fashionables  —  who 
dislike  the  robustness  of  American  life,  and  feebly  long  for 
those  signal  recognitions  of  leisured  wealth  which  only 
royalty  can  confer.  These  facts,  however,  are  of  infini- 
tesimal significance.  Our  titled  marriages  and  our  sudden 
appetite  for  heraldic  quarterings  are  an  unconscious  con- 
fession, not  a  boast.  The  strident  inanities,  the  "  conspicu- 
ous waste/'  and  the  advertised  idleness  of  a  few  transcendent 
spenders  are  not  to  be  dignified  by  an  imperialistic  inter- 
pretation. 

After  all,  our  money  kings  are  groundlings.  They  are, 
for  the  most  part,  workmen,  or  business  men  evolved,  with- 
out the  class  traditions  which  protect  British  peer  or  Prussian 
Junker  from  the  resentment  of  the  masses.  The  American 
multi-millionaire  reads  his  evening  paper,  and  (though  he 
owns  it)  forms  his  opinion,  in  part  at  least,  by  what  he  reads 
therein.  So  thin  is  the  wall  of  wealth,  that  great  business  j 
magnates,  who  did  but  what  their  predecessors  had  done, 
have  actually  died  of  shame,  when  an  aroused  public  con- 
tempt had  been  concentrated  upon  their  financial  dealings. 
Individually  the  great  men  of  America  are  much  like  the 
little  men.  They  are  a  small  group  with  intense  ambitions 
and  enormous  power,  but  they  still  remain  intellectually 
subject  to  the  current  philosophy  of  the  nation. 

Our  loosely  cohering  plutocracy  is  of  very  recent  birth. 
"  Until  the  twenties  or  thirties  of  the  nineteenth  century/ ' 
says  Mr.  Bryce,  "  there  were  no  great  fortunes  in  America 
and  few  large  ones."  "Now,"  he  continues,  "there  is  some 
poverty,  many  large  fortunes,  and  a  greater  number  of  gi- 
gantic fortunes  than  in  any  country  of  the  world."  In 
the  twenty  years  since  Mr.  Bryce  wrote,  accumulation  has 
been  proceeding  at  an  immensely  accelerated  rate.  To-day, 
more  than  ever  before,  a  plutocratic  group  has  power,  pres- 
tige, and  pretensions,  with  a  favored  economic  position  and  a 
wide  notoriety. 


80  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


8U 


Whence  came  these  sudden  millionaires?  What  seed 
carelessly  dropped  upon  the  fertile  American  continent 
brought  forth  this  strange,  exotic  fruit? 

A  curiously  significant  change  has  come  about  in  our 
attitude  towards  the  origin  of  millionaires.  In  the  early 
days  when  our  society  was  less  differentiated,  and  wealth- 
gaining  represented  exceptional  ability  of  approximately 
the  same  kind  as  that  of  the  average  man,  mere  possession 
was  prima  facie  evidence  of  shrewdness,  force,  and  savoir 
faire.  The  rich  man  was  the  respected  " leading  citizen" 
(with  a  strong  local  flavor).  He  was  the  ordinary  obscure 
citizen  raised  to  the  nth  degree.  The  penniless  individual, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  too  often  a  known  wastrel,  a  man  of 
evil  life  or  neglected  opportunities.  With  customary  Ameri- 
can immoderation  we  are  now  swinging  from  an  excessive 
laudation  of  wealth  to  an  exaggerated  blame,  and  our  great 
fortunes  are  regarded  almost  as  an  admission  of  personal 
dishonesty.  The  driver  of  an  ice  wagon  is  now  coming  to 
recognize  his  own  abilities  as  distinct  from  and  therefore  as 
ethically  superior  to  the  abilities  of  the  secret  financier  who 
reorganizes  a  railroad  or  floats  a  trust.  "No  man,"  so  runs 
a  solacing  maxim,  "can  make  a  million  honestly." 
~"  There  is  only  too  much  evidence  to  associate  the  getting 
\  of  many  of  our  great  fortunes  with  a  swaggering  financial 
\brigandage.  The  story  of  our  railroad  wreckers,  of  our  dis- 
tributors of  worthless  stocks,  of  our  gentlemanly,  manicured 
thieves  of  public  lands,  is  repeated  year  by  year  with  nau- 
seous iteration.  The  incredible  rascalities  of  the  old  Erie 
Railroad ;  the  historic  shifts,  lies,  violences,  and  illegalities 
of  the  Standard  Oil  Company;  the  dubious  financial  ma- 
nipulations of  the  United  States  Steel  Corporation ;  the  fraud- 
ulent operations  of  the  Ship-building  Trust ;  the  dishonest 
promotion  of  notorious  asphalt  companies;  the  labors  of 
the  forty  thieves  of  public  service  franchises — link  the  present 
with  the  past  in  one  malodorous  chain  of  financial  infamy. 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  81 

It  would  be  invidious  to  specify  more  nearly  the  most 
tainted  of  our  money-makers,  to  confer  a  distinction  of 
blame  where  so  many  are  deserving,  just  as  it  would  be  in- 
vidious to  compile  an  incomplete  directory  of  our  contem- 
porary pickpockets  or  "  strong-arm  men."  Even  an  outline 
of  the  corrupt  accumulation  of  fortunes  would  require  more 
volumes  than  one  would  care  to  read  or  write.  For  lovers 
of  the  picaresque,  there  are  hundreds  of  edifying  books, 
reports,  and  court  decisions,  and  thousands  of  magazine 
articles,  constituting  a  veritable  financial  Newsgate  Calendar. 
Let  us  take  our  feet  out  of  the  mire,  after  noting  where  the 
mire  lies. 

For  the  true  genesis  of  our  plutocracy,  we  must  go  deeper. 
The  charge  of  a  universal  personal  dishonesty  is  too  sweep- 
ing. Fortunes  have  been  made  by  men  of  sterling  integrity. 
Others  have  been  acquired  by  men  neither  better  nor  worse 
than  their  contemporaries.  Moreover,  the  explanation  does 
not  explain.  Even  in  the  thousands  of  cases  where  rogues 
obtained  millions  of  unguarded  public  treasure,  we  must 
look  behind  the  criminal  intent  of  the  fortune-getter  to  the 
carelessness,  ignorance,  and  political  ineptitude  of  society. 
Our  laws,  institutions,  and  philosophies  aided,  instead  of 
preventing,  these  vast  accumulations.  We  have  in  this 
country  thousands  of  hopeful  and  predestined  safe-crackers. 
We  have  also  burglar-proof  safes,  but  for  which  we  should 
be  despoiled,  however  loudly  we  threatened  the  cracksmen 
with  prison  and  social  ostracism.  Our  gross  private  accu- 
mulations arose  because  we  had  a  great  social  surplus,  and 
knew  not  what  to  do  with  it,  how  to  appropriate  it,  or  how 
to  guard  it.  Our  unseeing  society  took  the  vow  of  poverty, 
and  gave  away  all  it  had  —  to  the  rich. 

Many  avenues  have  led  to  American  fortunes.  Men 
who,  by  accident  or  through  foresight,  held  tracts  of  city 
land,  became  innocently  rich.  Others  drew  fabulous  divi- 
dends from  unconsidered  coal  lands,  oil  fields,  iron  mines, 


82  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

forests.  Some  rode  to  wealth  on  the  wings  of  a  patented 
device  —  a  telephone,  typewriter,  harvester,  glove-hook. 
Men  fell  heir  to  the  inventions  of  others  —  as  when  the 
owners  of  rusty  horse-car  lines  profited  by  the  discovery  of 
electric  traction.  Other  fortunes  were  found  on  the  dump, 
on  the  waste  heap.  Large  scale  production  led  not  only  to 
direct  economies,  but  to  the  discovery  and  utilization  of  by- 
products. Quite  apart  from  its  rebates,  the  Beef  Trust, 
through  sheer  effectiveness  in  utilizing  such  waste  products, 
would  have  been  able  to  overcome  the  little  butchers  who 
used  to  fill  our  cities  and  towns  with  their  redolent  abattoirs. 
Standardization  also  made  fortunes.  As  the  grading  of 
wheat  enabled  a  man  to  deal  in  millions  of  bushels  without 
seeing  them,  so  the  grading  of  industrial  plants,  the  stand- 
ardization of  labor,  and  the  adoption  of  uniform  systems  of 
cost-keeping  allowed  a  single  concern  to  maintain  factories 
all  over  the  country.  Consumption,  too,  was  standardized. 
By  advertising,  by  sheer  repetition  of  a  request  to  buy, 
manufacturers  could  directly  appeal,  over  the  heads  of  shop- 
keepers and  middlemen,  to  the  consumers  of  the  nation. 
The  growing  needs  of  the  people  were  reduced  to  one  com- 
mon denominator.  Individual  preferences  were  accom- 
(  modated  and  compromised.  The  cigarette  factories  and 
biscuit  factories  compelled  the  people  of  Los  Angeles  and 
Boston,  of  Jacksonville  and  Duluth  to  ask  for  the  identical 
cigarette  or  biscuit.  The  babies  of  a  continent  were  induced 
to  cry  for  a  single  cathartic.1 

Although  most  businesses,  from  the  selling  of  roach  foods 
to  the  manufacture  of  battleships  and  newspapers,  have  pro- 

1  Standardization  also  appears  in  the  organization  of  department  stores, 
nation-wide  mail-order  houses,  etc.,  which  are  examples,  not  of  specialized, 
but  of  integrated,  businesses.  A  great  department  store  of  to-day  is 
merely  a  federation  of  independent  concerns,  for  each  so-called  department 
is  an  autonomous  business,  being  charged  for  rent,  light,  heat,  and  being 
compelled  —  in  order  to  keep  its  place  in  the  store  —  to  contribute  its 
share  of  joint  profit. 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  83 

duced  considerable  fortunes,  the  chief  source  of  our  stupen- 
dous accumulations  has  usually  been  some  great  monopoly 
advantage,  not  shared  by  competitors;  some  advantage 
secured  legally  or  illegally,  with  the  consent  of  the  people  or 
in  their  despite. 

This  monopoly,  which  in  its  simplest  form  inheres  in 
land  and  is  at  the  basis  of  the  Astor  and  the  Field  fortunes, 
finds  its  typical  modern  expression  in  a  great  group  of  rail- 
way, public  franchise,  and  industrial  combinations,  all  of 
which  we  may  conveniently  group  together  under  the  vague 
and  inexact  term,  "the  trust."  In  this  large,  loose,  and 
somewhat  unusual  sense  of  the  word,  the  trust  is  the  busi- 
ness address  of  our  plutocracy,  and  our  plutocrats  are  the 
trust-builders,  "insiders,"  the  men  "on  the  ground  floor." 
The  trust  has  preyed  on  the  community's  surplus,  and  the 
insider  has  preyed  on  the  trust.  From  those  who  work  for 
the  trust,  seek  to  compete  with  the  trust,  buy  from  the  trust 
or  sell  to  the  trust,  a  steady  stream  of  wealth  flows  to  the 
trust.  From  the  trust  and  from  investors  in  the  trust  a 
steady  stream  of  wealth  flows  to  the  insider. 

Not  all  industries  are  susceptible  to  the  trust  process. 
Our  farms  are  relatively  small.  Our  retail  trade  is  only 
slightly  in  the  hands  of  big  organizations.  Our  many  busi- 
nesses of  making  small  special  articles,  of  furnishing  per- 
sonal services,  are  largely  under  the  competitive  control  of 
small  business  units.  Where,  however,  a  business  has  a 
natural  monopoly  element,  or  where  it  may  be  readily 
standardized,  or  where  economy  and  efficiency  are  greater 
in  large  establishments  than  in  small  ones,  there,  large  scale 
production  (which,  though  not  inherently  monopolistic, 
lends  itself  to  monopoly)  is  a  necessity  of  business  and  a 
permanent  symptom  of  our  industrial  life.  In  certain  great 
industries  we  have  definitely  and  irrevocably  committed 
ourselves  to  production  on  the  largest  scale.  Our  railroad 
systems  will  never  again  be  disintegrated.     Our  street  rail- 


, 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


V 


ways  will  never  be  broken  up  into  mutually  competing  parts. 
The  Standard  Oil  Company,  under  perhaps  a  new  organiza- 
tion and  another  name,  will  continue  to  unify  the  oil  business 
of  the  country.  A  steel  trust,  either  the  present  or  some 
future  one,  will  continue  to  exist.     In  many  important  in- 

//dustries  we  cannot  possibly  return  to  an  unlimited  com- 
!  petition  or  to  production  on  a  smaller  scale.  Until  we  under- 
stand this  fundamental  fact  we  shall  have  nothing  but  hard 
r  knocks  and  chaos. 
/  It  is  thus  possible  to  speak  of  the  plutocracy  not  only 
/as  a  group  of  excessively  wealthy  men,  with  their  business 
\  and  social  retainers,  but  also  as  a  system  of  industrial  or- 
ganization. We  may  describe  the  plutocracy,  or  the  pluto- 
cratic economy,  as  that  system  of  industry  in  which  a  large 
and  increasing  portion  of  the  income  of  society  flows  into 
great  reservoirs  (usually  natural  or  legal  monopolies)  which 
are  preempted  and  controlled  by  private  corporations. 
The  plutocratic  economy  is  based  upon  a  narrowing  con- 
trol of  enlarging  funds;  upon  a  unity  of  command  in  the 
industrial  world;  upon  the  leadership  of  the  large  purse. 
Its  ideal  is  the  conquest  of  the  world's  market.  Its  creed 
is  freedom  of  large  industry  from  political  interference.  Its 
L^  weapon  is  monopoly  and  large  scale  production. 

Not  only  are  monopoly  and  large  scale  production  per- 
manent, but  they  are  rapidly  trenching  upon  small  scale 
and  formerly  competitive  industries.  The  businesses  in 
which  there  is  a  visible  monopoly  element  are  already  over- 
powering in  magnitude.  A  totally  incomprehensible  amount 
of  capital,  estimated,  a  few  years  ago,  at  thirty-one  billions 
of  dollars  (par,  not  actual,  value),  represents  the  stocks  and 
bonds  of  our  railroad,  public  franchise,  and  large  industrial 
corporations.  The  United  States  Steel  Corporation  alone 
has  emitted  securities  which  actually  bring  on  the  market 
over  one  billion  of  dollars.  Despite  prohibitory  legislation, 
our  railroads  have  continued  to  unite  legally  and  actually. 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  85 

There  are  believed  to  be  six  compact  railroad  groups,  each 
with  a  capital  of  over  one  billion  dollars.  A  single  group  of 
financiers  is  supposed  to  dominate  railroads  with  a  combined 
capitalization  of  three  thousand  millions  of  dollars.1 

These  great  amalgamations  are  still  growing.2  The  big 
business  concern,  with  a  natural  or  artificial  monopoly,  or 
merely  a  short  cut  to  the  savings  of  the  people,  prospers  ex- 
ceedingly. It  grows  fat  by  indulging  the  right  to  levy  an 
increasing  toll  upon  an  increasing  number  of  millions. 
Secure  from  competition  (sometimes  even  from  potential 
competition),  the  trust  grows  in  value  with  the  birth  of  each 
child  and  the  advent  of  each  immigrant.  It  raises  prices, 
and  each  increase  is  immediately  reflected  in  increased  earn- 
ings, and  in  the  issue  of  new  capital.3  Not  only  does  the 
public  pay  the  increase  (though  not  without  humorous 
grumbling),  but  it  allows  the  trusts  to  sell  their  surplus  prod- 
ucts more  cheaply  abroad  than  at  home,  to  sell  cheap  abroad 
for  the  very  pur-pose  of  selling  dear  at  home.  Though  the 
trusts  have  not  been  uniquely  responsible  for  the  rise  of 
prices  during  the  last  fifteen  years,  this  rise  has  taken  place 
simultaneously  with  a  cornering  of  a  protected  market  and 
with  the  absorption  of  an  increasing  proportion  of  the  social 
surplus  by  industrial  combinations. 

The  trust  succeeds  because  it  is  a  unit.  Consumers, 
laborers,  and  competitors,  on  the  other  hand,  are  many  and 
largely  unorganized.     The  trust  can   profitably  employ  ai 

1  Not  even  an  approximate  exactness  is  claimed  for  these  figures,  which 
are  at  best  but  vague  estimates. 

2  This  does  not  apply  to  what  may  be  called  pseudo-trusts  —  mere 
loose,  industrial  aggregations,  with  no  monopoly  advantage,  and  with  an 
aqueous  capitalization  which  reveals  the  motive  of  their  formation.  These 
clumsy  business  Leviathans  merely  cumber  the  ground,  and  tend  to  dis- 
appear under  the  competition  of  more  active,  because  more  economically 
constructed,  industrial  creatures. 

3  Some  ten  years  ago  the  railroads,  by  a  mere  innocent  change  in  freight 
classification,  were  able  to  add  tens  of  millions  to  their  earnings  and  hun- 
dreds of  millions  to  their  capitalizable  value. 


86  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

one-hundred-thousand-dollar  man  to  determine  when  the 
scattered  millions  of  consumers  will  stand  an  increase  of  a 
tenth  of  a  cent  per  pound  or  gallon.  Over  its  employees 
the  trust  enjoys  similar  advantages.  A  hundred  mill  man- 
agers are  pitted  against  each  other  in  a  competition  to  secure 
—  not  necessarily  the  lowest  paid  employees  —  but  the  low- 
est possible,  the  lowest  conceivable  labor  cost.  Long  hours, 
excessive  speed,  Sunday  labor,  night  labor,  the  employment 
of  women  and  children,  the  casting  aside  of  middle-aged 
men,  the  cutting  down  of  wages,  even  the  running  of  truck 
stores  enter  into  this  reduction  of  labor  cost.  To  preserve 
the  advantage  of  unity  over  multiplicity,  to  remain  one,  and 
to  keep  its  opponents  many,  the  great  trust  usually  manifests 
an  antagonistic  attitude  towards  labor  unions.  The  hun- 
dred-million-dollar corporation,  to  rescue  its  honest  workmen 
from  the  clutches  of  the  walking  delegate,  prefers  to  bargain 
individually  with  each  of  its  employees.  Such  bargaining 
between  the  lion  and  the  hare  —  though  recognized  by  our 
legal  traditions  as  normal  —  usually  redounds  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  lion. 

In  its  relation  to  surviving  competitors,  the  trust  often, 
though  not  always,  enjoys  the  same  advantage.  There  are 
in  industry  many  small  nooks  and  crannies  in  which  the 
trust's  competitors,  because  of  their  very  inconspicuousness, 
may  survive,  while  profiting  by  the  high  prices  maintained 
by  the  trust.  Other  corporations  thrive  by  preying  upon 
the  trusts  and  especially  upon  the  essentially  unstable 
pseudo-trusts.  Usually,  however,  the  big  industrial  under- 
taking can  defeat  the  little  one  by  superior  banking,  railroad, 
or  legislative  facilities,  or  by  turning  practically  unlimited 
resources  to  a  contest  in  a  limited  market.  The  United 
Cigar  Stores  Company  (the  Tobacco  Trust)  destroyed,  in 
detail,  innumerable  tobacconists.  The  Beef  Trust  ruined, 
one  by  one,  many  individual  butchers.  The  trust  fights 
on  inside  lines.     It  concentrates  all  its  forces  on  a  single 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  87 

point.     The   trust   has   the   overwhelming   advantage   of 
unity. 

The  trust  magnate  has  an  exactly  analogous  advantage. 
As  the  trust  is  a  powerful  unit  opposed  to  an  unorganized 
and  comparatively  defenseless  industrial  society,  so,  inside 
the  trust,  the  "magnate,"  the  "insider,"  is  a  powerful  unit 
opposed  to  unorganized  and  comparatively  defenseless  stock- 
holders. The  trust  rules  despotically  over  business.  The 
magnate  rules  despotically  over  the  trust. 

This  despotic  rule  of  the  trust  magnate  is  due  to  a  fun- 
damental revolution  in  the  nature  of  investment.  The  aver- 
age small  investor  of  to-day  —  with  a  capital  of  twenty,  or 
of  twenty  thousand,  dollars  —  does  not  take  a  mortgage  on 
his  neighbor's  farm  nor  become  a  silent  partner  in  his  neigh- 
bor's business.  Those  investments  exist  and  attract  billions, 
but  the  greater  billions  go  into  large  unknown,  unforeseeable 
ventures.  The  little  capitalist  may  not  even  own  the  house 
in  which  he  lives,  and  he  may  run  his  business  on  credit, 
while  maintaining  a  balance  at  the  bank  or  investments  in 
the  great  industries  of  the  country.  Enormous  numbers  of 
small  capitals  are  gathered  by  banks,  trust  companies,  and 
insurance  companies,  and  are  invested  ultimately  in  securi- 
ties, which  are  bought  on  the  stock  exchange.  Hundreds 
of  thousands  of  men  give  to  brokers  large  or  small  funds 
to  invest,  and  thousands  of  millions  of  dollars,  invested 
in  savings  banks  and  in  trust  and  life  insurance  companies, 
find  their  way,  unknown  to  their  owners,  into  enormous 
agglomerations  of  capital.  The  stocks  and  bonds  of  "the 
trusts"  are  in  many  cases  widely  distributed. 

This  revolution  in  investment  is  a  necessity  of  our  modern  , 
production.     It  renders  capital  perfectly  mobile.     It  directs j 
the  savings  of  many  men  with  many  minds  to  one  great, 
concrete  enterprise.     It  enables  a  man  to  "realize"  immedi- 
ately;   to  know,  day  by  day,  how  much  he  is  "worth." 
Under  present  conditions,  however,  as  a  result  of  no  laws, 


88  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

bad  laws,  and  of  good  laws  badly  enforced,  the  little  investors 
are  not  always  the  controllers  or  chief  beneficiaries  of  the 
great  corporations  which  they  "own."  The  very  dispro- 
portion between  the  unit  of  investment  (which  is  one  share, 
worth  one  hundred  dollars  or  less)  and  the  industrial  con- 
cern (which  in  the  steel  business  is  the  billion  dollar  cor- 
poration) tends  towards  a  divorce  between  ownership  and 
control,  and  by  encouraging  irresponsibility,  and  discour- 
aging wisdom  and  caution  in  investment,  enables  the 
insider  to  profit  hugely  at  the  expense  of  his  stockholders. 
Our  enormous  private  fortunes  are  largely  due  to  this 
control  by  a  few  men  of  the  blind  investments  of  the 
many. 

It  is  an  old  adage  that  a  fool  and  his  money  are  soon 
parted,  and  a  modern  commentary,  that  a  fool  is  born  every 
minute.  There  is  no  known  way  to  prevent  the  men  with- 
out brains  from  contributing  to  the  support  of  the  men  with- 
out conscience.  We  have  always  had  financial  manias, 
when  men  parted  with  their  savings  for  stock  in  companies 
"to  make  deal  boards  out  of  sawdust,"  or  "for  a  wheel 
of  perpetual  motion,"  while  during  the  South  Sea  bubble, 
men  eagerly  bought  stock  in  "a  company  for  carrying 
on  an  undertaking  of  great  advantage,  but  nobody  to 
know  what  it  is."  In  finance  high  and  low,  most  men  are 
fools  some  of  the  time,  and  some  men  are  fools  all  of  the 
time. 

The  defect  of  our  corporation  arrangements,  however,  is 
not  that  they  fail  to  provide  a  guardian  for  each  speculative 
fledgling,  but  that  they  compel  even  the  cautious,  honest, 
and  reasonably  intelligent  investor  to  work  more  or  less 
with  his  eyes  shut.  Owing  to  business  secrecy  and  uncon- 
trolled financial  methods,  the  safe  opportunities  are  so  few 
compared  to  the  enormous  masses  of  capital  seeking  invest- 
ment, that  not  only  is  production  made  more  expensive, 
but  the  return  to  capital  is  so  discouragingly  low  that  men 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  89 

are  tempted  through  the  hope  of  a  greater  gain  to  invest  in 
enterprises  of  which  they  know  nothing.1 

While  the  legal  constitutions  (the  charters  of  incorpora- 
tion) of  our  giant  trusts  are  sometimes  speciously  demo- 
cratic in  form,  they  are  often  autocratic  in  practice. 
Theoretically  the  owner  of  a  single  share  of  stock  has  a  voice 
in  the  election  of  directors  and  the  determination  of  policy. 
Actually  the  mass  of  the  capital  may  be  invested  in  bonds 
or  in  preferred  stock  not  carrying  voting  power,  or  the  indi- 
vidual shareholder  may  be  deceived,  overawed,  or  dis- 
regarded. The  sovereign  stockholder  is  deluded  by  mis- 
leading circulars,  by  diversions  of  profits,  by  a  confusion  of 
securities,  piled  one  upon  another ;  by  bond  conversions  in 
the  interest  of  dominating  bankers  ;  by  the  arbitrary  transfer 
of  profits  from  one  constituent  company  to  another.  A 
company,  with  a  capital  of  three  thousand  dollars,  solemnly 
purchases  plants  worth  tens  of  millions.  Dummy  directors 
act  as  purchasers  in  the  real  interests  of  the  vendors.  Stock 
is  issued,  and  huge  debts  are  contracted,  without  adequate 
consideration.  Stocks  rise  and  fall  as  dividends  are  declared 
or  passed,  and  the  insiders  not  only  know,  but  determine, 
dividends.  The  corporation  laws  of  several  States,  enlisted 
in  an  ignoble  competition  to  legitimize  robbery,  give  the 
insider  every  possible  advantage,  as  does  also  a  business 
secrecy  which,  because  it  is  permissible  in  a  village  grocery 
store,  is  retained  by  corporations  with  hundreds  of  millions 


1  Moreover,  the  certificate  of  ownership  —  the  share  of  stock  —  has, 
by  becoming  standardized,  been  made  immediately  vendible.  When  a 
thing  is  immediately  vendible,  its  selling  price  becomes  of  paramount  im- 
portance. The  stock  becomes  worth  what  some  other  person  wisely  orl 
foolishly  is  willing  to  pay  for  it,  and  we  cease  to  care  about  intrinsic  values/ 
but  buy  in  expectation  of  sale.  Losses  on  the  stock  exchange  of  ten  repre- 
sent the  delusions  of  purchasers  as  to  the  extent  to  which  other  purchasers  "U 
can  be  deluded.  The  man  who  is  seeking  investment  runs  a  gauntlet  of 
clashing  financial  giants  and  of  a  mob  of  speculators  seeking  to  out-guess 
one  another. 


90  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

of  the  people's  savings.  More  or  less,  though  less  than 
formerly,  the  financial  magnate  works  in  the  dark.  By  a 
stroke  of  the  pen  he  changes  the  fortunes  of  thousands. 
To  his  stockholders  and  directors  he  may  thunder,  "Vote 
first,  discuss  afterwards." 

In  the  lawless  days  of  feudal  England  the  lordless  man 
was  so  unsafe  and  so  despised  that  he  sought  out  a  lord  to 
whom  he  might  become  a  serf.  In  our  financial  world 
to-day  we  have  a  somewhat  analogous  institution  of  lord- 
ship and  vassalage.  We  have  moneyed  oligarchs  controlling 
the  capitals  of  financial  retainers,  and  we  have  lordless  little 
capitalists  seeking  a  financial  lord.  There  is  in  all  the 
domain  of  finance  no  one  absolute  monarch,  since  the 
greatest  of  all  must  secure  the  support  of  neighboring  rulers, 
as  well  as  the  loyalty  of  his  own  money-bound  subjects. 
Nevertheless,  the  great  lords  of  finance  do  most  confidently 
depend  upon  the  unquestioning  allegiance  of  their  financial 
vassals,  who  contribute  millions  to  blind  pools  without 
knowing  the  purposes  for  which  the  money  is  to  be  used, 
and  without  subsequently  receiving  any  adequate  account- 
ing. The  custom  of  profits  —  obtained  at  the  expense  of 
the  industry  —  seals  the  mouths  and  the  consciences  of 
reorganizers  and  silent  underwriters.  They  do  not  ask  to 
know.  As  for  the  little  investor  —  the  theoretic  sovereign 
of  all  this  financial  realm  —  he  is  utterly  ignorant  and  abso- 
lutely impotent.  Oligarchy  in  business  is  more  strongly  en- 
trenched than  in  politics,  not  only  because  it  is  more  secret 
and  profit-bound,  but  because  the  little  investor  gives  his 
proxy  or  buys  his  single  share  with  a  lighter  heart  than  a 
voter  gives  his  ballot.  i 

Our  plutocracy,  based  on  the  trust's  position  in  industry 
and  the  trust  magnate's  position  within  the  trust,  is  com- 
posed, to  a  great  extent,  of  strong,  unscrupulous,  far-seeing, 
and  ultra-individualistic  persons,  who  secured  hold  of  our 
national  monopolized  business  while  we  as  a  nation  were 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  91 

dreaming  of  competitive  beatitudes.  These  men,  who 
built  up  our  competition-destroying  trusts,  are  themselves 
graduates  of  a  ruthless  competition.  Our  plutocracy  made 
its  profits  under  the  new  regime,  but  it  formed  its  habits 
and  gained  its  appetites  under  the  old. 

Under  the  guidance  of  these  leaders  of  the  plutocracy, 
our  industrial  concentration  continues  to  grow.  Our  pro- 
tective tariff  aids  the  trust  as  against  the  American  con- 
sumer. Our  internal  free  trade  aids  the  trust  as  against 
less  favored  competitors  in  various  parts  of  the  country. 
Our  almost  unrestricted  immigration,  by  creating  a  surplus 
of  labor,  aids  the  trust  as  against  its  workmen.  Finally, 
our  rapidly  increasing  national  wealth  aids  the  trust  builder, 
as  against  the  trust  investor,  by  enormously  widening  the 
sources  of  capital  and  by  making  capital  cheaper. 

It  is  impossible  to  set  limits  to  the  future  development 
of  our  trusts.  Just  as  the  control  by  industrial  groups  of 
capitals  amounting  to  one  billion  dollars  would  have  been 
almost  inconceivable  a  generation  ago,  so  in  the  future  this 
control  may  reach  even  greater  proportions.  The  giant 
trust,  which  long  since  eclipsed  city  and  State,  now  aspires 
to  overshadow  the  nation.  Difficulties  of  mere  organiza- 
tion have  been  overcome.  It  is  as  easy  to  control  a  billion- 
dollar,  as  a  one-hundred-million-dollar  corporation,  and  it  will 
be  no  more  impossible  to  organize  a  five-billion-dollar  cor- 
poration than  it  is  impossible  for  the  President  of  the  United 
States  to  administer  a  government  of  ninety-two  million 
citizens.  It  is  quite  conceivable  that  in  the  future,  railroad 
systems  or  industrial  corporations,  or  enormous  federations 
of  both,  or  Titanic  holding  companies  with  interests  in  all 
industries,  everywhere,  may  come  to  be,  in  which  the  capital 
may  aggregate  three  or  five  or  more  billions  of  dollars,  the 
working  spirits  being  half  a  dozen,  and  the  leading  and 
responsible  executive,  one  man. 

The  diffusion  of  stock,  and  the  resulting  divorce  between 


92  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  ownership  and  the  control  of  these  large  corporations, 
will  make  for  such  a  progressive  amalgamation.  The  chan- 
nels through  which  the  billions  of  savings  move  toward 
investment  tend  to  approach  each  other  and  to  coalesce. 
The  very  nature  of  big  business  tends  towards  a  narrow  con- 
trol of  enlarging  funds.  The  small  railroad,  swallowed  by 
the  large  one,  often  prospers  by  the  swallowing,  and  as  its 
stock  rises,  other  railroads  shyly  clamor  to  be  devoured. 
Gradually  it  is  perceived  by  great  financial  powers  that 
their  interests  are  not  mutually  exclusive,  but  are  capable 
of  adjustment,  and,  in  spite  of  friction,  an  inner  momentum 
tends  to  bring  them  together.  It  is  largely  a  problem  of 
psychological  adjustment,  of  the  gradual  removal  of  giant 
financial  leaders  with  separatist  tendencies.  When  the  con- 
ditions are  right,  when  the  minds  of  the  rulers  of  money 
and  of  the  people  are  attuned  to  the  new  conditions,  there 
may  come,  in  some  period  of  overwhelming  prosperity  and 
optimism,  a  series  of  combinations  compared  to  which  the 
formation  of  the  billion-and-a-half-dollar  Steel  Corporation 
was  a  small  and  timorous  venture. 

Stupendous  and  incomprehensible  as  such  future  amal- 
gamations may  be,  their  consummation,  immediate  or  ulti- 
mate, will  bring  no  absolutely  new  factor  into  the  field, 
but  merely  an  exaggeration  of  a  situation  already  here. 
What  we  already  have  is  an  industrial  oligarchy  existing 
in,  and  almost  overshadowing,  a  more  or  less  democratic 
political  community.  It  is  an  oligarchy  which  is  the  reverse 
and  complement  of  the  political  society  with  which  it 
coexists.  It  is  based  upon  the  billions  of  dollars  of  millions 
of  people.  It  marshals  these  billions  as  our  political  parties 
marshal  the  voters. 

The  industrial  oligarchy  is  based  not  only  on  the  dollars 
but  on  the  allegiance  (if  not  the  affections)  of  the  stock- 
holder. This  putative  owner  of  a  huge,  incomprehensible 
property  is  still  held  by  the  old  idea  of  the  perfect  liberty 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  93 

of  economic  action,  of  secrecy,  of  competition.  He  is  still 
the  "  magnificent/ '  optimistic  American,  who  believes  that 
he  possesses  enough  liberty  of  action  so  long  as  he  has  the 
right  to  buy,  hold,  or  sell  stocks  (of  the  value  of  which  he 
knows  little).  He  identifies  his  interest  with  that  of  the 
corporation  in  which  he  holds  stock,  although  his  true 
interest  lies  in  a  public  control,  which  will  make  for  knowl- 
edge, certainty,  and  equal  rights.  While  he  is  gradually 
changing,  while  a  progressive  disillusionment  is  bringing  him 
slowly  to  the  position  of  critic,  his  present  attitude  is  still 
one  of  belief  in  the  ultimate  rights  of  the  trust  builders. 
He  is  still  a  humble  and  devout  upholder  of  the  plutocracy. 

Thus  the  plutocracy,  based  as  it  is  upon  a  strategic  posi- 
tion in  our  enormous  industry,  consists  not  only  in  the 
votes  and  the  money  power  of  the  trust  builders,  but  in 
the  adherence  of  millions  of  men  owning  billions  of  dollars. 
Our  resplendent  plutocracy,  which  at  the  top  flowers  out  in 
enormous  fortunes,  magnificent  benefactions,  and  absurd 
ostentations,  is  rooted  not  only  in  our  political  non-regulation 
of  economic  conditions,  but  also  in  the  traditions,  ideas,  and 
ideals  of  millions  of  relatively  poor  men.  Without  the  sup- 
port of  the  small  investors  and  of  many  men  who  have  not 
even  the  wherewithal  to  purchase  a  single  share  of  stock, 
the  pillars  of  our  resplendent  plutocracy  would  crumble  and 
fall.  The  plutocracy  can  only  maintain  itself  so  long  as  the 
mass  of  investors,  large  and  small,  are  its  adherents. 

Still  more  fundamentally  the  plutocracy  maintains  itself 
because  as  a  nation  we  still  do  not  know  what  to  do ;  because 
we  support  the  plutocracy  by  attacking  not  causes  but 
symptoms.  We  object  to  the  false  scales  of  the  Sugar 
Trust,  as  we  object  to  all  the  devices,  honest,  dishonest,  and 
semi-honest,  by  which  a  few  men  maintain  a  business 
despotism.  We  object  rhetorically  to  an  oligarchic  control 
of  industry,  especially  when  such  control  leads  to  spoliation 
and  to  an  immoralization  of  business.    But  as  a  nation  we 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ill  believe  in  the  universal  efficacy  of  competition,  and  we 
still  expect  that  as  soon  as  we  have  killed  the  trusts,  our 
one  time  independent,  but  now  merged,  manufacturers  will 
awaken  from  sleep  and  begin  competing  again  where  they 
left  off  twenty  years  ago. 

In  the  past  we  have  tried  to  end  our  plutocracy  by  merely 
" smashing' '  the  trusts,  not  realizing  that  with  all  their 
l      imperfections  and  immoralities  they  represent  a  stage  in  our 
Y/  development  from  the  anarchic  industry  of  half  a  century 
A  ago  to  the  completely  socialized  industry  of  half  a  century 
\  hence.     We  have  turned  towards  the  trust  a  countenance 
less  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  and  we  have  tested  the  vital- 
ity of  industrial  combinations  by  whacking  them  over  the 
head,  as  the  military  engineer  gauged  the  strength  of  bridges 
by   prolonged   cannonading.     Our   Sherman   law  —  a   law 
with  more  fist  than  head  in  it  —  and  our  crude  antitrust 
legislation  generally,  are  attacks  not  upon  the  economic 
foundations  of  the  plutocracy,  but  upon  the  integrity  —  the 
wholeness  —  of  business.     We  cannot  kill  the  trusts  with- 
out taking  away  our  own  bread  and  butter. 

We  are  at  last  beginning  to  realize  that  while  the  "  criminal 
record"  of  many  of  our  trusts  is  a  fact  important  his- 
torically and  ethically,  nevertheless  the  recognition  of  this 
fact  does  not  teach  us  how  in  the  future  we  must  run  our 
national  businesses.  We  are  beginning  to  see  that  we  can 
moralize,  we  can  socialize  the  trusts,  and  can  build  more 
wisely  upon  the  economic  tendencies  of  the  age.  This  we 
/skre  slowly,  painfully  learning.  The  trusts  are  teaching  us 
—  as  we  are  teaching  them  —  that  the  end  of  it  all  must 
be  production  on  the  largest  scale  compatible  with  efficiency, 
but  a  production  so  regulated  as  to  ownership,  stock  issues, 
dividends,  prices,  wages,  and  profits  as  to  safeguard  the 
whole  community.  Unless  we  are  to  take  the  saltum  mortale 
\  of  a  complete  and  immediate  governmental  ownership  and 
\    operation  of  all  large  industries,  we  must  work  out  a  more 


OUR  RESPLENDENT  PLUTOCRACY  95 

perfect  system  of  corporation  control  in  the  interests  of 
society. 

Against  such  measures  of  regulation,  against  even  the 
creation  of  a  state  and  of  democratic  machinery  capable  of 
such  regulation,  the  plutocracy  opposes  the  dead  weight  of 
its  resistance.  Our  business  magnates,  to  get  what  they 
could  and  hold  what  they  got,  have  long  since  occupied  the 
political  positions  which  the  democracy  must  gain  before 
such  regulation  is  entirely  effective.  The  leaders  of  the 
plutocracy  are  giving  direction  to  their  pecuniary  aspira- 
tions by  carrying  over  their  activities  from  the  economic 
into  the  political  field  The  key  to  the  citadel  which  the 
plutocracy  has  established  in  industry  lies  in  the  law ;  tfiejy 
law  depends  upon  legislatures  and  courts ;  the  legislatures1 
and  courts  upon  parties ;  the  parties  upon  the  powers, 
open  and  occult,  which  control  them.  To  prevent  the 
democracy,  through  its  control  of  politics,  from  conquering 
the  industrial  field,  the  plutocracy  enters  politics. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   PLUTOCRACY  IN   POLITICS 

CORRUPTION  is  the  natural  weapon  of  a  wealth^ 
minority,  as  deception  is  of  the  weak,  and  force  of\ 
the  strong.     Our  plutocracy  in  its  invasion  of  the  political  / 
field  corrupts  legislators,  administrators,  judges,  and  parties. 

In  any  rapid  view  of  our  present-day  political  corruption, 
it  is  difficult  to  avoid  exaggeration  both  as  to  its  volume  and 
significance.  We  find  the  trail  of  evil  influence  in  so  many 
places  that  we  are  prone  to  generalize  political  depravity, 
and  to  ignore  the  large  fields  of  public  life  in  which  venality 
is  absent  or  quite  subordinate.  "Graft  "  is  more  spectacu- 
lar than  the  gray  honesty  of  ordinary  life,  and  it  is  far  easier 
to  point  out  evil  than  to  determine  its  exact  boundaries. 

Before  stating  the  influence  of  the  plutocracy  upon  poli- 
tics, therefore,  it  may  be  wise  to  emphasize  certain  consider- 
ations which  limit  the  universality  of  our  conclusions.  In 
the  first  place  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  all,  or  a  majority, 
of  our  financial  magnates  have  exerted  an  improper  influence 
on  legislation,  or  have  sought  to  do  so ;  nor  is  it  contended 
that  the  level  of  political  probity  of  this  group  (in  proportion 
to  its  opportunities  and  temptations)  is  sensibly  inferior  to 
the  general  level  of  our  whole  population.  Secondly,  it  is 
not  assumed  that  the  development  to  be  described  has  taken 
place  in  all  cities  and  States,  or  that  it  has  been  unimpeded ; 
for,  as  will  later  be  shown,  countervailing  forces  have  devel- 
oped so  rapidly  that  the  corporate  influence  upon  politics 
seems  far  weaker  to-day  than  it  was  five  or  ten  years  ago. 
Finally,  however  amiable  the  intentions  of  our  more  unscru- 
pulous industrial  leaders,  they  cannot  lay  claim  to  the  dis- 
tinction of  having  invented  corruption. 

96 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  97 

Corruption,  in  fact,  is  no  new  thing  in  America.  Charges 
of  venality  were  preferred  against  the  founders  of  the 
Republic,  and  from  1828  to  1860,  during  the  ascendancy  of 
the  Democratic  party,  public  officials  openly  boasted  of 
their  ' '  stealings. ' '  The  history  of  the  Civil  War  was  streaked 
with  graft.  The  administrations  of  Grant,  both  in  the  re- 
conquered States  and  at  Washington,  were  an  orgy  of 
venality.  The  State  governments,  among  which  New  Jer- 
sey maintained  a  bad  eminence,  were  often  degraded, 
while  many  cities  were  corrupt  beyond  conception.  Munici- 
pal venality  was  downright,  abject,  open,  chronic.  Vicious 
elements  in  the  population  were  mobilized  under  the  banner 
of  graft.  Almshouse  inmates  marched  en  masse  to  the  polls, 
and  were  voted  wholesale.  Elections  were  carried  by  col- 
onization, intimidation,  ballot-stuffing,  and  false  counting 
of  votes.  A  succession  of  bandits,  of  whom  Tweed  was 
not  the  first,  protected  and  blackmailed  vice,  crime,  and 
franchise-seeking  corporations.  Indirect  filchings  coexisted 
with  the  custom-honored  method  of  openly  stealing  money 
from  the  public  treasury.  -**— - 

I  The  peculiar  significance  of  our  present-day  American 
political  corruption  lies  not  in  its  novelty,  but  in  its  change 
of  character  and  source.  It  has  become  subtle,  scientific,7 
organized.  It  has  become  a  pendant  to  large  business, 
which  is  also  subtle,  scientific,  organized.  To-day  political 
corruption  is  menacing,  not  only  because  all  corruption  is  t 
immoral  and  antidemocratic,  but  because  it  represents  the 
intrusion  into  politics  of  a  disciplined  and  aggressive  plur 
tocracy. 

Wealth  invades  politics  to  gain  new  wealth  and  to  safe- 
guard that  already  won.  It  seeks  to  prevent  "interfer- 
ence" and  repel  " socialistic  and  demagogic"  attacks  on 
property.  It  is  willing  to  fight  for  peace;  to  bribe  for 
"justice."  It  seeks  the  things  to  which  it  feels  it  has  a 
right.    Our  political  corrupters  are  animated  by  a  specious, 


98  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

self-justifying  philosophy  of  business,  and  their  actions  are 
condoned  by  thousands  of  beneficiaries,  who,  though  good 
and  patriotic  (as  goodness  and  patriotism  go),  desire  above 
all  to  conserve  material  and  moral  interests,  believed  to  be 
endangered  by  the  " uncontrolled"  representatives  of  the 
people. 

Corruption  is  not  unilateral.  It  does  not  descend  from 
business  into  politics  without  reascending.  Corporations 
bribe  legislators.  But  legislators  also  bludgeon  and  black- 
mail corporations.  Our  legislators  were  not  all  uncorrupted 
creatures  of  God  before  the  Fall;  nor  was  every  indus- 
trial magnate  an  insinuating  serpent,  crawling  into  the 
political  garden.  The  share  of  obloquy  may  fairly  be 
contested. 

Our  lawgivers  had  a  " feeling  of  their  business"  long 
before  trusts  were  conceived.  They  knew  their  value  to 
citizens  who  profited  by  a  "lax"  enforcement  of  laws,  and 
they  delighted  to  levy  tribute  on  prostitute,  gambler,  and 
pickpocket.  Laws  were  passed  for  the  purpose  of  selling 
exemptions  and  granting  indulgences.  Crooks  in  and  out 
of  office  joined  dirty  hands.  Outside  partners  of  ruling 
officials  secured  the  adoption  of  faulty  building  plans. 
Lawyer  friends  of  judges  won  doubtful  cases.  Bondsmen, 
runners,  lodging-house  sharks,  and  the  whole  underworld  of 
business  and  corrupt  politics  learned  to  "divide"  and 
conquer.  There  was  no  limit  to  the  evil  sphere  of  influence 
of  the  lesser  politicians;  no  end  to  the  "rake-offs"  and 
"shake-downs";  no  graft  too  petty  or  disgusting  to  escape 
the  humble  ambitions  of  small  political  fry.  These  men 
were  venal  before  the  advent  of  the  latter-day  large-scale 
briber.  They  escaped  corruption  because  already  infinitely 
corrupted.  When,  however,  in  the  fullness  of  time  and  fate, 
the  wholesale  briber,  the  business  lobbyist,  appeared  upon 
the  scene,  the  venal  politicians  gravitated  towards  him 
with  the  spontaneity  of  beings  fulfilling  natural  and  pre- 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  99 

destined  instincts.  They  were  like  parasites  which  benefit 
the  "host"  they  prey  on. 

Petty  graft  has  now  declined  into  a  mere  adjunct  to 
organized  big  business  graft,  which  gives  tone  to  a  multi- 
farious corruption,  and  welds  it  into  one  noxious,  formidable 
system.  The  blackmail  of  vice  and  crime  —  petty  in  detail, 
though  enormous  in  its  threatening  aggregate  —  is  like  the 
humble  forest  floor,  the  matting  of  lichens,  mosses,  and 
ferns,  protected  by  and  protecting  the  upright  trees  and 
their  flowering  branches.  The  president  of  a  councils- 
buying  traction  company  is  in  real,  though  unsuspected, 
league  with  the  woman  on  the  street  who  passes  a  stealthy 
dollar  to  the  patrolman.  The  august  board  of  directors 
of  the  legislature-owning  railroad  are  own  brothers  to  the 
second-story  man,  who  to  pursue  his  lesser  calling  must 
also  seek  legislative  connivance.  The  bond  between  these 
groups  is  the  nexus  of  political  interest.  The  great  men 
who  escape  taxation  through  representation  in  the  tax 
office,  who  defeat  needed  legislation  because  it  interferes 
with  their  profits,  have  no  sympathy  with  the  tolerated 
street  thugs  or  the  little  men  who  finance  vice.  And  yet, 
like  citizens  of  a  feather,  they  vote  and  bribe  and  steal 
together.  The  big  corrupters  could  not  hold  their  own 
but  for  the  votes  and  the  fists  of  the  little  scamps.  The 
little  scamps  could  not  survive  but  for  the  money,  intel- 
ligence, and  protecting  respectability  of  the  princely  cor- 
rupters. 

The  organizing  skill  of  the  business  magnate  in  systema- 
tizing political  corruption  has  changed  it  from  a  local 
though  chronic  phenomenon  to  one  which  is  organic  and 
nation-wide.  "  Every  time  I  attempted  to  trace  to  its 
sources  the  political  corruption  of  a  city  ring,"  says  Lincoln 
Steffens,  the  acute  political  pathologist,1  "the  stream  of 

1  Steffens,  Lincoln,  VThe  Struggle  for  Self-Government.'*  New  York, 
1906,  page  3. 


100  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

pollution  branched  off  in  the  most  unexpected  directions 
and  spread  out  in  a  network  of  veins  and  arteries  so  com- 
plex that  hardly  any  part  of  the  body  politic  seemed  clear 
of  it.  It  flowed  out  of  the  majority  party  into  the  minority ; 
out  of  politics  into  vice  and  crime;  out  of  business  into 
politics,  and  back  into  business;  from  the  boss,  down 
through  the  police  to  the  prostitute,  and  up  through  the 
practice  of  law  into  the  courts ;  and  big  throbbing  arteries 
ran  out  through  the  country  over  the  State  to  the  nation 

—  and  back.  .  .  .     Not  the  political  ring,  but  big  business 

—  that  is  the  crux  of  the  situation." 

The  industrial  oligarch,  on  entering  politics,  raised  cor- 
ruption to  a  higher  power.  He  was  above  party  (as  were 
the  corrupt  party  leaders),  and  he  abetted  both  contestants 
for  office,  or  the  one  more  likely  to  win  in  the  particular 
city  or  State.  He  cared  little  for  platforms  or  other  ora- 
torical effects,  but  limited  himself  to  the  constitution  of 
the  party  machine,  the  elevation  of  the  boss,  the  choice  of 
utilizable,  though  inconspicuous,  officials,  and  the  judicious 
manning  of  important  legislative  committees  with  men 
pliable,  purchasable,  or  purchased,  or  whose  antecedents 
were  known  and  approved.  In  conjunction  with  party 
bosses,  the  business  corrupter  created  an  intricate  scheme 
of  progressive  promotion,  an  elimination  of  the  stiff-necked, 
and  the  proper  rewarding  of  all  men  according  to  their 
utility. 

In  many  cities,  this  corrupting  leadership  fell  into  the 
hands  of  speculators  in  street  railway,  gas,  electric  light, 
water,  and  other  franchises.  The  city  was  openly  and 
contemptuously  despoiled.  In  New  York,  Chicago,  Phila- 
delphia; in  Cleveland,  Toledo,  Pittsburg;  in  a  tediously 
long  list  of  American  cities,  grants  in  perpetuity  of  stupen- 
dous value  were  obtained  for  the  bribing.  Unscrupulous 
finance  went  hand  in  hand  with  a  light-hearted  betrayal  of 
popular  rights.    The  man  who  stole  a  franchise  and  sold  it 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  101 

again  to  the  people  while  still  keeping  it  —  a  commonplace 
of  financial  legerdemain  —  took,  while  he  was  about  it, 
the  city  government.  He  dominated  conventions,  made 
and  unmade  mayors,  and,  where  necessary,  selected  and 
elected  his  own  governor. 

It  is  held  by  some  that  the  city  is  originally  sinful  while 
the  State  is  endowed  with  a  larger  portion  of  political 
grace,  and  that,  therefore,  the  erring  municipality  should 
be  subjected  to  minute  State-made  laws.  We  now  see, 
however,  that  this  maternal  ligament  between  State  and 
city  is  a  channel  as  much  for  the  spread  of  corruption  as  for 
the  contagion  of  political  innocence.  City  corruption  is 
but  part  of  a  ramified  State  corruption,  and  when  city 
grafters  are  in  danger,  State  grafters  rush  to  their  assistance. 
When,  as  Mr.  Steffens  points  out,  Minneapolis  sought  re- 
form, Minnesota  interfered ;  the  reformers  of  Pittsburg  were 
checkmated  by  corruptionists  at  Harrisburg,  and  the  people 
of  Cleveland,  after  defeating  the  city  traction  interests, 
were  obliged  to  take  up  the  battle  anew  with  adverse  forces 
at  Columbus  and  —  Washington. 

While  the  franchise  corporation,  and  sometimes  the  rail- 
road, secured  control  of  the  city,  the  State  government  in 
many  cases  came  under  the  dominion  of  the  railroad  and 
the  industrial  corporation.  The  corporation  appointed  its 
own  men  to  office,  escaped  its  fair  share  of  taxation,  defeated 
legislation,  and  secured  franchises  and  privileges.  The 
autocratic  control  of  politics  spread  from  State  to  nation, 
so  that  the  United  States  Senate,  as  well  as  the  House  of 
Representatives,  became  in  part  bulwarks  and  defenders  of 
unfair  privilege. 

One  of  the  simplest  methods  of  obtaining  power  over 
legislation  was  by  direct  bribery  of  the  lawmaker.  This 
was  especially  easy  and  efficacious  where  the  object  was 
simply  to  defeat  legislation,  for  in  our  multiform  govern- 
ment, with  its  split  responsibility  favoring  the  status  quo, 


;  4Q9       • ' :  ;     :,,''  ^HE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

a  bill,  in  running  the  gauntlet,  may  be  dispatched  without 
its  real  assassin  being  discovered.  The  bill  may  be  killed 
in  a  committee  of  the  Lower  House,  or  not  reported  out. 
It  may  be  emasculated  by  amendment,  or  so  " strengthened" 
as  to  insure  either  its  legislative  defeat,  or  its  ultimate 
rejection  by  the  courts.  It  may  be  voted  down  on  the 
floor  of  the  House.  It  may  be  talked  to  death.  It  may 
meet  any  of  these  fates  in  the  Upper  House.  It  may  be 
vetoed  by  the  Executive.  It  may  fall  without  a  positive 
veto  by  the  adjournment  of  the  legislative  body.  It  may 
be  annulled  by  the  courts  for  any  of  a  hundred  reasons, 
intrinsic  or  technical.  Finally  it  may  be  placed  on  the 
statute  book  and  be  affirmed  by  the  courts,  and  yet  remain 
unenforced  or  malenforced.  Who  killed  Cock  Robin  is 
often  an  unsolvable  problem.  Upon  the  vote  of  one  man, 
given  in  the  obscurity  of  a  committee  room,  may  depend 
the  fate  of  a  measure  desired  by  a  majority  of  the  people, 
but  unwelcome  to  a  corrupting  corporation. 

The  bought  legislator  may  betray  his  trust  without 
arousing  suspicion.  It  is  easy  to  destroy  by  delay ;  to  kill 
by  seeming  kindness ;  to  smother  a  bill  in  very  excess  of 
love.  The  need  of  information  is  urged  by  men  who  want 
not  knowledge  but  postponement.  Incidental  and  hypo- 
thetical hardships  of  a  measure  are  paraded  before  willingly 
credulous  legislators,  and  multimillionaires  hide  behind  the 
skirts  of  widows,  and  mingle  their  tears  with  those  of  desti- 
tute orphans.  A  poor  woman,  threatened  with  a  law 
reducing  her  labor  to  ten  hours  a  day,  pawns  her  furniture 
to  make  a  long  trip  to  the  State  capitol,  there  to  add  her 
protest  to  that  of  some  benevolent  manufacturers'  associa- 
tion. Corrupt  legislators  are  reasonable  beings  and  can  find 
a  reason  for  what  they  are  paid  to  do. 

In  legislative  crises  the  pressure  upon  wavering  men  is 
increased  until  resistance  breaks  down  as  under  a  thumb- 
screw.    Money,  cajolery,  flattery,  and  intimidation  furnish 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  103 

the  arsenal  of  the  bribers,  —  those  adept  miners  and  sappers 
of  human  steadfastness.  The  bribers  believe  that  e very- 
man  has  his  price,  and  whether  it  be  " legal  fees,"  stock- 
exchange  tips,  social  recognition,  political  preferment,  flat- 
tering newspaper  paragraphs,  or  the  subtler  flattery  of  a 
private  interview  with  the  Olympian  employer  of  the  briber, 
the  price  is  paid.  Even  more  devious  means  of  "  persuasion  " 
are  employed.  From  nowhere,  from  the  depths  of  an 
ominous  anonymity,  arise  vague  rumors  concerning  the 
political  or  personal  morality  of  the  recalcitrantly  honest. 
Traps  are  laid,  and  the  tempted  legislator,  because  of  his 
very  straightforwardness,  finds  his  actions  clouded  over  by 
a  veil  of  false  appearances.  Gradually  he  loses  a  certain 
fine  Puritan  fervor  of  reform.  He  feels  that  he  fights  alone, 
unaided  by  public  knowledge  or  sympathy,  or  the  assurance 
of  an  ultimate  popular  justification.  At  last,  by  contagion 
of  example,  he  comes  to  believe  that  in  this  political  laby- 
rinth the  direct  road,  hewn  out  by  sheer  strength,  leads  to 
nowhere,  while  the  sinuous,  seductive  deviations,  the  well- 
grooved  convolutions,  are  the  only  possible  course.  Beset 
by  ugly  penalizing  rumors  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  seduction 
of  money  and  political  preferment  on  the  other,  he  succumbs. 
He  sins  in  his  own  defense;  he  " loses  his  virtue  to  save  his 
reputation."  Thereafter  he  becomes  more  circumspect  — 
for  his  purchaser  cares  little  how  he  talks,  so  long  as  he 
votes  straight. 

No  such  system  of  specialized,  standardized,  subtilized 
corruption  could  exist  without  capital  to  finance  it.  This 
capital  is  thriftily  furnished  by  unscrupulous  magnates,  who, 
though  they  bribe,  consider  bribing  beneath  them,  and  have 
sovereign  contempt  for  their  own  wretched  brood  of  political 
procurers,  who  furnish  what  is  demanded  —  and  no  ques- 
tions asked  or  embarrassing  explanations  given.  The  in- 
vestigation of  the  life  insurance  companies  showed  that  the 
money  of  the  insured  —  of  those  very  widows  and  orphans, 


1L 


104  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  patron  saints  of  corrupting  millionaires  —  was  turned 
into  a  " yellow-dog  fund"  for  the  purchase  of  legislators. 
Predatory  corporations  assign  to  "  advertising  and  publicity 
accounts"  expenditures  which  need  not  be  advertised  and 
could  not  be  published.  Franchises  are  stolen  by  free 
lance  bribers,  who  sell  their  " interests"  to  " innocent  third 
parties,"  who  in  turn  invite  the  public  through  stock  sub- 
scriptions to  repurchase  their  own.  It  is  a  Thieves'  Market, 
in  which  the  beneficiaries  stand  in  no  ascertainable  legal 
relation  to  the  thieves,  and  in  which  the  public  has  no 
redress  except  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  locking  the 
stable  door. 

While  the  predatory  corporation  often  stoops  to  pur- 
chase a  single  legislator,  to  pick  up  a  human  trifle  at  a 
sacrifice,  the  main  channel  through  which  this  corruption 
flows  is  the  party.  Through  obedience  to  party  many 
wavering  legislators  are  secured.  The  corrupter  buys  whole- 
sale, and  the  party  machine  becomes  his  agent  and  sponsor. 
In  our  present  American  political  system,  we  have  corrup- 
N.    tion  of,  by,  and  through  the  party. 

The  rank  and  file  of  political  parties  is  not  corrupt,  for  this 
rank  and  file  is  practically  the  adult  male  population  of 
the  country.  Nor  is  a  majority,  or  even  a  large  minority, 
of  party  agents  venal.  The  virus  of  corruption  runs  through 
the  party  simply  because  in  America  it  is  the  channel  of 
representative  government.  Like  the  advocates  of  social 
regeneration,  so  the  debauchers  of  men  repair  to  the  party 
to  set  the  seal  of  their  ambitions  upon  this  instrument  of 
popular  sovereignty. 
^ — .The  party  is  corruptible  because  largely  irresponsible. 
In  our  complicated  government,  where  responsibility  has 
always  been  as  diffused  as  the  light  of  Arctic  spring,  it  was 
difficult  to  bring  all  powers  of  government  under  the  do- 
minion of  one  party,  and  it  was  often  impossible  to  know 
whom  to  punish  for  known  and  felt  abuses.    The  party 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  105 

which  strove  for  reform  in  our  national  government  might 
stand  for  bottomless  corruption  in  city  or  State.  Not  be- 
lieving that  it  possessed  the  power  of  carrying  out  its  prom- 
ises, the  party  made  promises  all  the  more  rashly.  States- 
men unable  to  control  corrupt  associates  abandoned  the 
effort,  surrendering  their  places  to  self-seeking  men,  who 
aided  in  the  conversion  of  the  party  into  a  piratical  busi- 
ness enterprise. 

The  root  of  this  party  deterioration  was  money.  The  "1 
party  became  a  beggar,  a  sturdy  rogue  without  visible 
means  of  support,  yet  living  riotously,  and  insisting  that 
the  world  owed  him  a  good  living.  Instead  of  taking  the 
vow  of  poverty,  as  a  popular  party  should,  instead  of  being 
supported  openly  and  democratically  (as  is  to-day  the 
Socialist  party)  by  the  pennies  and  nickels  of  its  members, 
the  party  demanded,  and  received,  an  endowment  from 
men  willing  to  invest  in  political  organization  as  they 
invested  in  railroads  and  timber  lands. 

For  however  independent  the  party  became  of  the  people 
at  all  times  except  election  day,  it  never  became  independ- 
ent of  money.  Money  it  must  have  —  and  much  money. 
Mere  cohesion  was  expensive.  At  election  time  there  were 
parades,  torchlight  processions,  open  air  meetings,  crowded 
halls,  the  securing  of  speakers,  the  obtaining  of  straw  votes, 
advertisements  in  hostile  newspapers,  the  sending  out  of 
thousands  of  tons  of  campaign  literature,  chowder  picnics, 
the  payment  of  loyal  but  hungry  workers,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  " illegitimate"  expense  of  " blocks  of  five"  in  doubtful 
districts.  Politics  was  business ;  business  required  capital ; 
and  to  the  capitalist  belonged  the  revenue  of  the  enterprise. 
Corporations  did  not  contribute  to  campaign  funds  without 
hope  of  influencing  legislation,  administration,  and  justice. 
The  secret  campaign  contribution,  the  logical  outcome  of 
our  political  philosophy,  was  Esau's  mess  of  pottage. 

This  corruption  of  legislators  and  parties,  this  attainment 


106  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

of  strategic  positions  in  the  political  field,  was  not  due,  in 
the  beginning  at  least,  to  a  thought-out,  class-conscious 
campaign  of  a  cohesive  plutocratic  group.  It  was  not  one 
correlated  system  of  interdependent  parts.  Each  man 
merely  acquired  the  political  facilities  which  he  needed  in 
his  business,  without  much  thought  of  the  simultaneous 
actions  of  like-minded  men  in  other  places. 

These  individual  spheres  of  political  influence  are  now 
beginning  to  coalesce,  just  as  big  businesses  themselves 
are  coalescing.  There  is  in  process  a  political  integration, 
similar  to  our  industrial  integration,  and  due  to  precisely 
the  same  causes.  Corporations,  financially  interlinked,  are 
brought  together  automatically  on  the  political  field.  Men 
who  for  years  have  grumbled  about  telephone  charges  find 
themselves  opposing  the  State  regulation  of  such  rates, 
because  an  "attack"  upon  one  "interest"  is  a  peril  to  all. 
There  is  a  political,  as  well  as  an  industrial,  "community 

\  of  interest."  l 
\  The  progress  of  this  political  integration,  though  gradual, 
is  rapid.  Political  "holdings,"  like  financial  " holdings," 
are  "merged,"  first  for  a  single  political  "operation,"  and 
later  for  a  whole  political  policy.  The  like-mindedness  of 
financial  magnates,  like  the  like-mindedness  of  political 
mercenaries,  gives  rise  to  a  secret,  interstate,  bi-partisan 

apolitical  machine.  Democratic  Congressmen,  vassals  of 
financiers  above  party,  support  a  Republican  oligarchy; 
Republician  repeaters  in  one  State  are  loaned  to  a  Demo- 

1  Not  only  does  the  plutocracy  possess  this  political  solidarity,  which 
money  bestows,  but  also  the  power  of  scenting  danger  a  long  way  off. 
Our  whole  industrial  system  is  based  upon  an  intelligent  estimate  of  future 
happenings,  and  the  present  value  of  a  railroad  corporation  declines  if 
there  is  real  reason  to  fear  that  five  or  twenty  or  perhaps  even  fifty  years 
hence  the  property  will  in  whole  or  in  part  be  confiscated,  or  its  profits 
reduced.  When  the  sensitive  Wall  Street  barometer  registers  a  danger, 
immediate  or  ultimate,  to  one  listed  security,  other  securities  plunge  down- 
ward in  sympathy. 


f 

THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  107 

cratic  boss  in  a  neighboring  State.  Political  gladiators  for- 
get to  fight.  A  sweet  vision  of  gilded  peace,  of  a  veritable 
Pax  Romana,  stirs  hearts  long  inured  to  bitter  partisan  strife. 
The  two  parties,  united  at  last  in  a  competitive  devotion  to 
a  generous  plutocracy,  sleep  on  their  arms  in  an  affectionate 
embrace.     A  political  trust  comes  into  being. 

This  political  trust  is  more  ramified,  systematized,  and 
powerful  than  any  in  the  history  of  American  political  insti- 
tutions. It  represents  trust  methods  applied  to  politics. 
It  is  a  secret,  effective,  card-index  scheme  of  government) 
based  on  the  elimination  of  surplus  political  machinery,  the 
standardization  of  corruption,  and  the  organization  of  all 
legislative  bodies  on  the  approved  model  of  the  dummy 
board  of  directors.  The  system,  crossing  party  lines  and 
State  lines,  is  built  like  a  pyramid  from  the  ubiquitous  ward 
heeler  up  through  the  ward  boss,  the  city  boss,  the  State 
boss,  to  a  shadowy  —  as  yet  non-existent  —  national  boss, 
seated  perhaps  in  the  Speaker's  chair  or  in  the  Senate  of 
the  United  States. 

The  mortar  of  this  edifice  is  money.  It  is  money  which 
negotiates  the  direct  purchase,  for  immediate  or  "  future 
delivery,"  of  individual  legislators  and  of  whole  party 
machines.  But  the  power  of  the  political  trust  has  even 
a  wider  base.  Though  money  has  been  used  and  is  still 
used  in  national  State,  and  local  politics,  though  men  occa- 
sionally buy  their  way,  almost  openly,  into  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States,  though  the  dollar  mark  is  placed  above  many 
portals  to  political  life,  still  it  is  safe  to  say  that  political  cor- 
ruption is  only  the  immediate,  and  not  the  ultimate  and 
determining  factor  in  the  invasion  of  politics  by  the  plu- 
tocracy. If  the  contest  were  simply  one  between  men  and 
money,  between  millions  of  clear-eyed  voters  on  the  one 
hand  and  silent  bribers  on  the  other,  the  issue  would  soon 
be  determined.  Despite  race  and  sex  limitations,  we  have 
a  practically  democratic  suffrage,  and  if  we  were  once  fairly 


/ 


1 


108  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

united  in  opposition  to  any  institution,  however  protected 
by  money,  we  could  vote  it  off  the  face  of  the  continent. 

What  retards  such  united  action  is  an  ideal,  a  tradition, 

air  affection  for  political  institutions  and  modes  of  thought 

which  have  become  endeared  to  us  through  a  century  of 

national  life.     It  is  not  because  we  love  it  that  we  press  the 

plutocracy  to  our  bosom  —  on  the    contrary,  we  hate  it 

devotedly  —  but  because  we  love  the  things  which  give  to  it 

/  life  and  extension.     Our  hand  is  stayed  by  ancient  political 

/^ldeas  which  still  cumber  our  modern  brains;    by  political 

heirlooms  of  revered  —  but  dead  —  ancestors.     Between  us 

and  it,  the  plutocracy  thrusts  the  Constitution  of  the  United 

X^  States.     Defeated  in  the  legislature  it  seeks  sanctuary  in 

the  courts. 

There  are  many  things  in  the  business  and  political  world 
of  1911  which  were  undreamed  of  by  the  men  who  drafted  the 
federal  Constitution.  Nothing  in  the  minds  of  Hamilton  and 
Madison  could  remotely  have  paralleled  the  interpretations 
which  high-priced  trust  attorneys  have  placed  upon  this 
instrument.  Yet  the  Constitution  was  especially  designed\ 
for  a  class  which  bore  a  similar  relation  to  the  America  of 
1787  that  the  plutocracy  bears  to  the  America  of  1911.  In 
any  event,  it  was  possible  for  the  plutocracy  to  capture  the 
Constitution,  just  as  it  was  possible,  several  generations  ago, 
for  a  like  capture  to  be  effected  by  the  slave  power. 

The  Constitution  aids  the  plutocracy  in  many  ways.  It 
is  like  an  old,  rambling  mansion,  which  cannot  be  lighted, 
and  in  the  dark  places  of  which  our  enemies  secrete  them- 
selves. The  plutocracy  benefits  by  the  sharp  limitations  \ 
which  the  Constitution  places  upon '  national  and  State 
efforts  for  reform.  Most  undemocratic  feature  of  all,  the 
Constitution  furnishes  no  adequate  opportunity  for  popular 
amendment.  >^ 

Thus  the  Constitution  —  to  which  we  have  owed  and  still 
owe  much  —  is  a  stiff,  unyielding,  and  formidable  —  be- 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  109 

cause  venerable  —  obstacle  to  a  true  democracy,  and  a  strong 
bulwark  of  the  plutocracy.  It  stands  firm  largely  because 
of  an  unlimited  admiration,  which  forbids  adverse  criticism, 
and  almost  precludes  discussion.  According  to  current 
theory,  the  Constitution  of  1787  is  good  enough  for  the  people 
of  1911  or  2011  or  3011,  its  principles  and  solutions  being  v 
eternal.  It  consequently  happens  that  the  ancient  squabbles 
of  jealous,  petty  commonwealths  still  afflict  a  great  nation, 
infinitely  more  civilized  than  the  community  which  gave 
birth  to  this  organic  law. 

^/Actually  our  Constitution  is  amended  to-day  (as  it  has 
/been  amended  for  the  last  one  hundred  and  twenty  years) 
\3hiefly  by  process  of  interpretation.  New  senses  are  given 
to  old  words ;  the  growing  political  foot,  by  sheer  pressure, 
changes  the  old  stiff  shoe.  This  amendment  by  interpreta- 
tion, however,  is  carried  out  not  by  direct  representatives 
of  the  people,  but  by  the  Supreme  Court,  a  body  of  nine 
honorable,  estimable,  and  politically  irresponsible  jurists. 

This  irresponsibility  was  intended  by  the  Constitution, 
and  has  been  approved  by  a  century  of  acquiescence  on  the 
part  of  the  people.  Yet  the  latitude  of  this  irresponsibility 
might  well  give  us  pause.  Not  only  does  the  Supreme  Court 
decide  questions  of  far  greater  moment  than  that  of  war  or 
peace,  not  only  does  it  hold  a  constitutional  veto  upon  the 
most  fundamental  exercise  of  national  sovereignty,  but  this 
right  is  exercised  by  men  who  have  never  received  the  suf- 
frages of  their  fellow-citizens,  and  who,  once  seated  upon  the 
bench,  are  practically  forevermore  irremovable.  The  Chief 
Justice  of  the  United  States  is  responsible  to  his  God  and 
his  conscience  (as  is  the  Czar  of  Russia),  but  he  is  not  re- 
sponsible to  the  ninety  million  people.  Politically,  he  is  < 
more  irresponsible  than  a  city  alderman,  for  the  alderman 
needs  our  votes,  and  the  Chief  Justice  does  not.  If  eighty 
million  people  want  a  law  and  five  of  the  nine  judges  decide 
that  the  measure  is  not  constitutional,  then,  legally,  the 


110  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

eighty  million  will  not  prevail  against  the  five.  There  is  no 
appeal  from  the  five  jurists  to  the  eighty  millions  —  for  the 
people  are  not  presumed  to  know,  until  told,  what  is  con- 
stitutional and  what  is  not.  They  cannot,  except  through 
the  impracticable  process  of  impeachment,  remove  the  judges 
or  appoint  other  ones.  They  must  wait  until  the  judges 
die  and  new  judges  take  their  place.  In  the  meantime,  the 
people  who  need  the  law  also  die. 

It  must  be  admitted  that,  in  the  ordinary  course,  our 
highest  federal  judges  have  shown  wisdom  and  patriotism, 
have  sought  to  interfere  little  with  national  executive  and 
legislature,  and  have  been  free  from  even  the  vaguest  sus- 
picion of  venality.  But  whether  it  be  exercised  wisely  or 
unwisely,  virtuously  or  viciously,  this  right  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  finally  and  unreviewably  to  declare  a  law  void,  in 
opposition  to  the  opinion  of  a  majority,  constitutes,  in  the 
absence  of  ample  facilities  for  a  popular  amendment  of  the 
Constitution,  a  flat  and  uncompromising  negation  of  de- 
mocracy. Though  the  veto  of  the  court  is  presumed  to  be 
based  upon  the  sole  ground  of  constitutionality,  neverthe- 
less the  probable  tendency  and  economic  effects  of  the  law 
actually  enter  into  the  determination  of  constitutionality, 
of  which  the  nine  jurists  are  final  arbiters. 

Even  though  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court  were 
invariably  democratic,  and  made  for  an  extension  of  pop- 
ular power,  still  so  long  as  these  decisions  were  not  re- 
viewable by  the  people  through  the  power  of  easily  amend- 
ing the  Constitution,  it  would  be  an  undemocratic  way 
to  achieve  democracy,  and  we  might  well  look  this  gift- 
horse  in  the  mouth.  But  the  general  trend  of  the  court 
decisions,  at  least  until  recently,  has  not  been  unduly  favor- 
able to  a  rapid  extension  of  democracy,  to  the  effectuation 
of  popular  control  over  industrial  and  social  relations.  While 
the  Supreme  Court  of  the  United  States,  like  other  bodies, 
has  come  more  or  less  under  the  ripening  influence  of  a  new 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  111 

democratic  spirit ;  while  it  has  shown  greater  hesitancy  than 
have  many  State  courts  in  nullifying  needed  State  laws,  it 
has  not  so  democratized  our  Constitution  as  to  render  possible 
the  carrying  out  of  necessary  measures  of  political  and  social 
reform  which  other  nations  have  adopted.  According  to 
Prof.  Frank  J.  Goodnow,1  there  are  some  measures  "  which 
many  believe  to  be  absolutely  necessary  either  now  or  in  the 
future  .  .  .  which  we  in  the  United  States  are  probably  pre- 
cluded from  adopting  because  of  the  attitude  now  taken  by 
the  courts  towards  our  practically  unamendable  federal  con- 
stitution." Among  these  measures  "  may  possibly  be  men- 
tioned some  which  are  apparently  regarded  as  essential  parts 
of  a  program  of  effective  social  reform ;  such  as  pensions  or 
public  insurance  in  case  of  old  age,  accident  or  sickness 
where  the  recipient  of  the  pension  or  insurance  is  not  actually 
a  pauper  and  where  the  fund  from  which  such  pension  or  in- 
surance is  obtained  is  derived  from  taxation ;  the  regulation  of 
the  hours  of  adult  male  labor  in  any  but  the  evidently  most 
harmful  trades  ;  effective  regulation  of  the  use  of  urban  land; 
and  the  use  of  the  powers  of  taxation  and  eminent  domain 
for  the  purpose  of  furthering  schemes  to  provide  aid  for  the 
needy  classes.  Furthermore,  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  whether 
without  amendment  of  the  federal  constitution  our  political 
organization- can  develop  in  such  a  way  as  to  be  in  accord 
with  even  existing  economic  conditions,  not  to  speak  at  all 
of  the i future."  Whatever  may  be  the  attitude  of  certain 
groups  in  the  community  towards  such  measures,  continues 
Professor  Goodnow,  "  it  is  believed  that  there  are  few  persons 
having  the  welfare  of  this  country  really  at  heart,  or  not 
blinded  by  prejudice  or  class  interest,  who  will  assert  that 
the  conditions  of  the  American  people  are  so  peculiar  that 
we  should  close  for  them  the  avenues  open  to  other  peoples 
through  which  orderly  and  progressive  political  development 

1  "  Social  Reform  and  the  Constitution,"  New  York  (Macmillan) ,  1911, 
p.  332. 


112  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

in  accordance  with  changing  economic  and  social  conditions 
may  proceed." 

It  is  not  to  be  assumed  that  the  attitude  of  our  highest 
court,  where  it  has  favored  the  pretensions  of  the  plutocracy 
or  obstructed  the  expansion  of  the  democracy,  has  been 
the  result  of  a  conscious,  let  alone  an  interested  attempt 
to  influence  the  balance  of  power  in  America.  It  is 
possible  that  occasionally  there  has  been  a  subtle  bond 
of  sympathy  between  the  politically  irresponsible  judges, 
raised  to  the  very  pinnacle  of  our  social  structure,  and 
the  more  statesman-like  and  cultured  of  our  irresponsible 
business  princes.  The  road  to  the  federal  court  runs  through 
the  practice  of  corporation  law  with  the  business  magnates 
as  clients,  and  points  of  view  and  social  interpretations 
imbibed  in  one's  youth  are  likely  to  survive  middle  age. 
But  the  real  cause  of  the  excessive  conservatism  of  our  con- 
fyVstitution,  as  it  is  interpreted  by  the  courts,  seems  to  be 
the  comparative  inflexibility  of  the  judicial  mind,  a  certain 
blindness  to  the  changing  social  and  economic  order,  an 
exaggerated  veneration  for  ancient  principles  of  law,  estab- 
lished under  conditions  which  no  longer  apply.  The  very 
excellence  of  the  federal  judge's  qualities  carries  with  it  cer- 
tain limitations,  a  stubborn  respect  for  the  prestige  of  prece- 
dent, and  an  impatience  of  the  cruder  strivings  of  a  raw 
democratic  spirit.  When  we  reflect  that  our  higher  federal 
judges  have  for  the  most  part  been  old  men,  with  the  inelas- 
ticity of  old  men ;  when  we  examine  into  the  sources  of  their 
nomination;  when  we  trace  their  activities  during  the 
twenty  years  immediately  preceding  their  elevation,  we 
need  not  wonder  that  instinctively,  and  with  perfect  mental 
honesty,  they  have  gently  inclined  as  a  rule  towards  the  side 
of  privilege,  towards  a  strict  interpretation  of  the  Constitu- 
N    tion  of  the  United  States  favorable  to  the  plutocracy. 

All  of  this  is  remediable  through  the  education  of  the  judges 
and  of  ourselves,  and  through  the  creation  of  some  stronger 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS 


113 


popular  check,  formal  or  informal,  upon  the  general  deter- 
minations of  our  federal  courts.1  There  exists,  however,  VS 
under  the  name  of  respect  for  the  courts,  a  cult  of  judicial 
infallibility  which,  in  its  usual  interpretation,  is  profoundly 
undemocratic,  subtly  demoralizing,  and  a  menace  to  popular 
rule  a  hundred  fold  more  damaging  than  a  hundred  adverse  / 
court  decisions.  The  decision  of  the  judges  (in  the  absence 
of  any  present  possibility  of  an  appeal  to  the  people)  must  be 
accepted  until  reversed,  but  whoever  is  opposed  to  such 
decision  should  be  entitled  to  express  his  views  in  the  same 
manner  and  in  the  same  terms  as  against  a  decision  of  Presi- 
dent, congressman,  governor,  or  alderman.  The  judge  is 
entitled  to  respect,  as  is  the  senator,  railway  director,  farmer, 
car  conductor,  or  head  waiter;  but  to  shield  him,  or  them, 
from  candid  adverse  criticism,  to  create  about  him  a  special 
atmosphere,  is  extremely  bad  for  clear  thinking  and  demo- 
cratic enlightenment.  The  political  institution  which  re- 
quires "  prestige/ '  pomp,  or  laws  against  contempt ;  which 
cannot  rely  frankly  upon  popular  support,  is  in  a  bad  way. 
The  courts  will  maintain  the  respect  of  the  people  by  being 
the  servants  of  the  people.2 


1  It  was  a  sign  of  progress  when  a  great  political  philosopher  made  the 
discovery  that  already  the  "Supreme  Court  follows  the  election  returns." 

2  Some  fifteen  years  ago,  President  William  Howard  Taft,  then  United 
States  Judge,  expressed  himself  as  follows  :  — 

"The  opportunity  freely  and  publicly  to  criticise  judicial  action  is  of 
vastly  more  importance  to  the  body  politic  than  the  immunity  of  courts 
and  Judges  from  unjust  aspersions  and  attack.  Nothing  tends  more  to 
render  Judges  careful  in  their  decisions  and  anxiously  solicitous  to  do  exact 
justice  than  the  consciousness  that  every  act  of  theirs  is  to  be  submitted 
to  the  intelligent  scrutiny  and  candid  criticism  of  their  fellow-men.  In  the 
case  of  Judges  having  a  life  tenure,  indeed,  their  very  independence  makes 
the  right  freely  to  comment  on  their  decisions  of  greater  importance,  be- 
cause it  is  the  only  practicable  and  available  instrument  in  the  hands  of  a 
free  people  to  keep  such  Judges  alive  to  the  reasonable  demands  of  those 
they  serve."  For  a  full  statement  of  Mr.  Taft's  position,  see  Taft,  William 
H.,  "Present  Day  Problems."  New  York  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.),  1908, 
p.  29  et  seq. 
i 


114  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Through  the  action  of  the  courts  in  interpreting  the  Con- 
stitution, the  widest  possible  powers  have  been  given  to  a 
growing  and  entrenched  plutocracy.  According  to  President 
Arthur  Twining  Hadley, "  the  power  of  control  by  the  Govern- 
ment was  weakened  and  the  rights  and  immunities  of  the 
property  holders  correspondingly  strengthened  by  two  events 
whose  effect  upon  the  modern  industrial  situation  may  be 
fairly  characterized  as  fortuitous."  One  of  these  was  the 
decision  in  the  celebrated  Dartmouth  College  case  in  1819, 
which  made  a  charter  granted  by  a  State  a  contract,  the 
obligation  of  which  could  not  be  impaired,  and  which  thus 
protected  midnight  franchises  against  all  future  attacks  by 
the  legislature.1  The  other  was  the  Fourteenth  Amend- 
ment to  the  Constitution,  which,  designed  to  protect  the 
freedmen,  has  been  interpreted  primarily  in  behalf  of  the 
modern  corporation.  Since  no  State  shall  "  deprive  any  per- 
son of  life,  liberty,  or  property,  without  due  process  of  law, 
nor  deny  to  any  person  within  its  jurisdiction  the  equal 
protection  of  the  laws"  ;  and  since  a  corporation  is  a  person 
in  the  sense  of  the  amendment,  therefore  any  corporation 
desiring  to  resist  a  State  or  local  law  may  appeal  for  "  equal 
protection"  to  the  federal  courts.  The  jurisdiction  of  the 
federal  court  having  been  sustained  in  1882  in  a  case 
brought  by  the  Southern  Pacific  Railroad  Company,  the 
door  was  opened  in  all  cases  of  attempted  regulation  or  taxa- 
tion to  an  intervention  by  federal  tribunals,  with  resulting 
delays,  and  a  weakening  of  the  State  and  local  authorities. 
The  mere  expense  of  prosecuting  these  cases  in  the  federal 
courts,  while  of  little  moment  to  wealthy  corporations,  was 
often  sufficiently  onerous  to  the  city  or  State  government 

1  The  evil  force  of  this  decision  has  been  greatly  lessened  by  subsequent 
decisions  of  the  courts,  limiting  the  extension  of  the  Dartmouth  decision, 
and  by  provisions  in  later  State  constitutions,  requiring  that  all  grants  in 
future  be  made  subject  to  revision  by  future  legislatures,  and  that  com- 
panies, desiring  their  charters  amended,  should  subject  themselves  to 
similar  conditions. 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  115 

to  prevent  needed  regulation.  President  Hadley  maintains 
that  "the  two  (" fortuitous ")  l  decisions  together  have  had 
the  effect  of  placing  the  modern  industrial  corporation  in  an 
almost  impregnable  constitutional  position."  "The  funda- 
mental division  of  powers  in  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,"  says  Professor  Hadley,  "is  (not  into  executive, 
legislative,  and  judicial,  but)  between  voters  on  the  one  hand 
and  property  owners  on  the  other."  The  property  rights 
so  defended  are  essentially  those  of  the  "modern  indus- 
trial corporation"  in  its  "almost  impregnable  constitutional 
position." 

If  the  judicial  appeal  could  be  short,  sharp,  and  decisive, 
if  our  justice  were  the  simple  and  summary  decision  of  an 
Eastern  cadi,  we  might  have  a  more  even  chance  of  an  in- 
clining of  the  courts  to  the  will  of  the  democracy.  Under 
present  conditions  in  many  States,  however,  the  democracy 
would  fare  better  by  pitching  up  a  penny  or  consulting  a 
fortune  teller  than  by  appealing  to  the  courts.  Our  whole 
judicial  system  is  so  complicated  and  involuted  that  it  often 
has  the  effect  of  breaking  the  force  of  the  popular  will.  A  bill, 
late  after  passage,  may  be  declared  unconstitutional,  and 
arrangements  made  in  conformity  with  it  maybe  retroactively 
voided.  By  a  graduated  system  of  appeals  from  courts  of 
lower  to  courts  of  higher  instance,  by  a  subtly  intricate  and 
technical  body  of  rules  of  evidence,  by  interminable  delays 
working  in  the  interest  of  the  long  purse,  by  a  multiplicity 
of  reversals  and  self-reversals,  no  law,  if  contested,  is  sure  of 
being  carried  into  effect  for  many  years.  Even  if,  after  a 
lapse  of  years,  a  State  law  is  approved  by  all  the  courts,  the 
political  party  originally  advocating  it  may  long  since  have 
passed  out  of  power,  because  it  has  lost  the  support  of  people 

1  "I  call  their  effect  fortuitous  because  neither  the  judges  who  decided 
the  Dartmouth  College  case  nor  the  legislators  who  passed  the  Fourteenth 
Amendment  had  any  idea  how  these  things  would  affect  the  modern  in- 
dustrial situation.'!     President  Hadley,  The  Independent,  April  16,  1908. 


116  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

who  want  "  to  see  something  done."  Later  elections  may- 
have  thrown  the  power  back  into  the  hands  of  the  very  in- 
terests who,  by  their  injunctions  and  judicial  appeals,  have 
thwarted  the  will  of  the  majority.  New,  often  fictitious, 
issues  have  arisen ;  the  case  of  the  people  is  defended  by  its 
secret  enemies ;  and  gradually  the  reforming  zeal  dissipates 
itself  and  the  proposed  reform  is  forgotten. 

One  might  believe  that  the  force  of  reaction  could  no 
farther  go.  As  a  result,  however,  of  our  rigid  Constitu- 
tion ;  of  our  checks  and  balances  and  hindrances  and  delays 
and  vetoes,  executive,  legislative,  and  judicial;  of  our  split 
authority  and  our  attenuated  responsibility,  we  have  al- 
lowed to  grow  up  still  other  obstacles  to  the  effectuation  of 
the  popular  will.  For  decades  we  tolerated  in  the  almost 
avowed  interest  of  the  plutocracy  an  oligarchic  control  of 
the  House  of  Representatives.  Our  system  of  congressional 
committees,  says  Professor  J.  Allen  Smith,1  "  virtually  gives 
a  small  body  of  men  constituting  a  committee  a  veto  on  every 
legislative  proposal,' '  while  according  to  Mr.  Bryce,2  it 
"  gives  facilities  for  the  exercise  of  underhand  and  even 
corrupt  influence.  In  a  small  committee  the  voice  of  each 
member  is  well  worth  securing,  and  may  be  secured  with 
little  danger  of  a  public  scandal."  The  limitation  of  debate 
on  the  floor,  the  haste  of  the  House,  the  hitherto  arbitrary 
power  of  the  Speaker  to  recognize  members  add  to  the  ir- 
responsibility of  the  individual  legislator,  who,  moreover, 
though  he  votes  contrary  to  the  expressed  will  of  his  con- 
stituents, cannot  be  recalled.  We  still  needlessly  hold  to  the 
traditional  and  indefensible  custom  of  convening  the  new 
Congress  not  four  months  but  thirteen  months  after  election, 
and  in  the  second  session  beginning  in  the  December  of  every 
even  year,  our  legislation  is  enacted  by  a  " lame-duck"  Con- 

1  "The  Spirit  of  American  Government,"  New  York  (Macmillan), 
1907,  pages  193-194. 

2  "The  American  Commonwealth,"  Vol.  I,  Ch.  15. 


THE   PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  117 

gress,  by  a  House  of  Representatives  which  has  already  been 
superseded,  and  of  which  many  members  have  been  retired 
and  are  no  longer  held  by  the  hope  of  reelection  or  the  fear 
of  defeat.  "It  is  then,"  said  Congressman  John  F.  Shafroth, 
"that  some  (Representatives)  are  open  to  propositions  which 
they  would  never  think  of  entertaining  if  they  were  to  go 
before  the  people  for  reelection.  It  is  then  that  the  attorney- 
ship of  some  corporation  is  often  tendered  and  a  vote  is 
afterward  found  in  the  record  in  favor  of  legislation  of  a 
general  or  special  character  favoring  the  corporation."  * 

Our  plutocracy  secures  its  favored  position  in  politics 
through  the  existence  of  a  governmental  system  too  com- 
plicated to  be  easily  run  or  easily  understood  by  a  busy  and 
engrossed  people.  It  is  through  these  complications  and 
traditional  absurdities  of  our  political  life,  from  our  long, 
incomprehensible,  and  intentionally  complicated  ballot  to 
our  excessively  complicated  nominating  systems,  and  from 
our  gerrymandered  electoral  districts  up  to  our  needlessly 
complex  judicial  system,  that  the  plutocracy  is  enabled  to 
confound  legislators  and  voters ;  to  set  off  one  public  body 
against  another;  to  confuse  issues  and  to  throw  a  cloud  of 
dust  over  the  whole  business  of  legislation.  The  plutocracy 
gains,  and  the  democracy  loses,  through  the  complexity  and 
artificiality  of  our  governmental  relations. 

Thus  the  plutocracy  going  into  politics  in  order  to  defend 
its  position  in  industry  not  only  bribes  and  corrupts  legis- 
lators and  parties  (as  its  lesser  predecessors  had  done  before 
it),  but  intrenches  itself  in  the  intricacies  and  convolu- 
tions of  our  federal  system,  and  hides  itself  behind  the  most 
undemocratic  features  of  our  Constitution.  Not  only  does 
it  secure  the  legislation  which  it  wants,  and  kill  the  legisla- 
tion which  it  fears  (or  is  merely  vaguely  suspicious  of),  but 

1  ''When  Congress  should  Convene,"  North  American  Review,  Vol.  164. 
Mr.  Shafroth  recommends  that  the  first  session  begin  shortly  after  elec- 
tion day  and  the  second  session  end  before  the  succeeding  election. 


ffi 


118  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

it  seeks  to  prevent  even  the  beginnings  of  a  real  democracy, 
which  may  grow  up  to  regulate  the  plutocracy.  As  politics 
become  integrated,  and  political  enterprises,  like  business 
enterprises,  are  carried  out  on  a  larger  scale,  the  plutocracy 
relies  less  even  on  its  own  standardized  corruption  and  be- 
gins to  depend  more  upon  its  almost  impregnable  constitu- 
tional position  and  upon  favoring  judicial  interpretations. 
Finally,  the  plutocratic  influence  on  politics,  once  a  series 
of  unrelated  forays  by  independent  financial  interests,  tends 
to  became  merged;  and  the  political  trust  —  in  process  — 
appears. 

This  political  trust,  like  the  industrial  trust  of  which  it 
is  the  reflection,  fights  on  inside  lines.  It  is  able  to  con- 
centrate all  its  forces  at  one  point,  to  turn  its  organized 
energies  upon  any  single,  isolated  manifestation  of  rebellion. 
Like  the  industrial  trust  it  seeks  to  hold  a  monopoly  of 
power. 

Inevitably,  however,  this  political  trust,  like  the  industrial 
trust,  becomes  visible,  and  with  its  visibility,  the  countervail- 
ing and  curative  forces  of  democracy  multiply  astoundingly. 
Antagonists  spring  up.  At  first  the  political  trust  seeks  to 
"buy  up"  all  these  strike  competitors;  especially  the  dem- 
agogues and  "tribunes  of  the  people,"  who  spectacularly 
hate  the  trust,  but  who,  without  surrendering  their  invec- 
tives, endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace.  Yet  the  more  they 
are  bought  up,  the  more  there  are  to  buy  up,  since  oppo- 
nents, like  rabbits  and  rattlesnakes,  thrive  best  when  there 
is  a  bounty  upon  their  heads.  The  party  machines  which 
the  political  trust  buys  tend  to  lose  their  effectiveness  as  the 
fact  becomes  known,  just  as  newspapers,  known  to  be  owned 
by  antidemocratic  interests,  tend  to  lose  their  influence 
with  the  democracy.  The  alignment  of  the  people  beyond 
party  fines,  or  in  new  parties,  or  in  old  parties  reconstituted, 
proceeds  as  the  workings  of  the  political  trust  become 
visible,  so  that  he  who  votes  may  read. 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  IN  POLITICS  119 

This  development,  with  the  resulting  conflict,  is  as  yet  only 
in  process,  but  with  each  year  the  opposition  to  the  plutocratic 
control  of  politics  become  more  obdurate  and  determined. 
New  methods  are  devised  to  prevent  bribery  of  legislators, 
executives,  and  judges ;  to  place  political  parties  under  pop- 
ular control ;  to  simplify  legislation  and  administration ;  to 
facilitate  appeals  from  legislators  to  public  opinion.  Step  by 
step  the  invasion  of  the  plutocracy  into  politics  is  accom- 
panied by  an  invasion  of  the  democracy  into  politics  ;  by 
the  creation  of  a  more  tenacious  and  intelligent  interest  in 
political  affairs ;  by  the  rise  of  a  new  democratic  spirit. 

As  a  result  of  this  growing  conflict,  certain  new  truths  an 
being  learned  by  both  sides.  It  is  being  recognized,  both  by 
democratic  and  anti-democratic  leaders,  that  our  political 
forms  are  not  a  last  will  and  testament  of  a  dead  sovereij 
but  are  themselves  as  mutable  as  the  things  which  they 
regulate.  Our  laws  and  ordinances,  our  constitutions  and 
precedents,  even  the  inflexible  Constitution  of  the  United 
States,  are  all  subject  in  final  analysis  to  revision,  review,  and 
abrogation  by  the  deliberate  judgment  and  the  determined 
will  of  the  even  now  potentially  sovereign  people.  Our 
checks  and  balances  and  vetoes,  our  political  qualifications, 
prerogatives,  conditions,  and  statuses ;  our  statutes  of  limi^ 
tation  and  perpetual  guarantees;  in  fact,  all  our  political 
institutions,  however  ancient  and  honorable,  are  but  creatures 
of  a  people  who,  having  made,  may  unmake,  who,  having 
given,  may  take  away.  In  a  nation  which  contains  within 
itself  the  qualities  which  make  for  true  democracy,  the  final 
arbiter  of  all  relations,  industrial,  political,  and  social,  is  the 
people ;  the  ultimate  standard  of  values,  the  ultimate  sanc- 
tion, is  not  legal  but  moral. 

To  this  definitive  moral  judgment  of  the  people,  in  process 
of  becoming  sovereign,  the  plutocracy  must  finally  appeal. 
Just  as  it  went  into  the  legislature  and  the  secret  chamber  of 
the  political  boss  to  defend  its  franchises  and  privileges, 


120  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

present  and  prospective,  so  now  it  far-sightedly  comes  into 
the  larger  arena  of  public  opinion.  It  is  its  right.  What  it 
has  to  say  in  self -justification  should  be  said  out  loud  in  news- 
papers, magazines,  and  books;  in  the  pulpit,  on  the  stage, 
in  the  schools  and  universities,  wherever  two  or  three  gather  . 
together  to  discuss  public  things.  Whether  the  nation  will 
be  democratic  or  plutocratic  in  its  philosophy,  whether  it 
will  learn  from  both  parties  and  borrow  from  both,  must  be 
decided  by  open  discussion  in  an  open  forum.  The  ultimate 
struggle  is  a  struggle  for  public  opinion. 


u 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   PLUTOCRACY  AND   PUBLIC   OPINION 

THE  plutocracy,  to  control  the  market  and  the  ballot  box, 
must  control  also  the  mind  of  the  nation.     It  there- 
fore invests  the  last  citadel,  public  opinion. 

There  can  be  no  fair  objection  to  an  open  advocacy  of  the 
plutocracy's  ideals  and  purposes.  To  every  shade  of  thought, 
religious,  scientific,  political,  economic,  and  social ;  to  every 
craze,  fad,  dogma,  heresy,  and  inspiration ;  there  should  be 
accorded  a  forum,  a  soap  box,  a  ton  of  type,  and,  subject  to 
a  subsequent  responsibility  for  utterances,  full  liberty  of 
speech  and  print.  The  more  frankly  the  plutocracy  speaks 
out  in  its  accredited  journals  or  elsewhere  under  its  signature, 
the  better  for  it  and  its  opponents.  It  has  a  perfect  moral 
right  to  flood  the  country  with  its  "literature,"  provided  such 
writings  show  their  source  as  clearly  as  does  a  legal  brief. 
p>  When,  however,  we  speak  of  the  conquest  of  the  press  by 
the  plutocracy,  we  have  in  mind  not  an  open  and  candid 
advocacy,  but  a  subtle,  devious,  and  anonymous  campaign 
of  suppression,  misrepresentation,  and  falsehood.  In  secur- 
ing publicity,  as  in  securing  political  power,  the  weapon  of 
the  plutocracy  is  the  weapon  of  all  wealthy  minorities,  the 
corrupt  and  secret  use  of  money.  The  plutocracy  quietly 
plants  itself  at  strategic  places  on  the  avenues  to  the  public 
mind,  where  it  can  exact  its  toll  of  the  news  and  temper  the 
truth  to  a  shorn  people.  When  it  buys  a  journal  or  a  poli- 
tician* it  does  not  advertise  the  fact.  The  pirate  ship  flies 
a  peaceful  flag;  the  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  is  sedulously 
taught  to  browse. 
The  broad  avenues  leading  to  public  opinion  are  the  daily 

121 


122  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

newspaper,  the  weekly  or  monthly  magazine,  the  trade 
journal,  the  book,  the  acted  play,  the  sermon  from  the 
pulpit,  the  lesson  in  the  class,  the  lecture  in/the  university. 
Of  these,  the  most  influential  is  the  periodical  press,  and 
more  especially,  the  penny  newspaper. 

Americans  are  voracious  newspaper  readers.  Our  prob- 
lems are  so  manifold  that  no  one  can  understand  everything ; 
our  ninety  million  neighbors  are  so  unutterably  beyond  direct 
personal  contact  that  we  must  trust  to  the  printed  word. 
In  a  small  Swiss  canton  or  a  New  England  township,  public 
opinion  may  be  independent  of  a  periodical  press.  The 
public  opinion  of  a  great  and  dispersed  nation  is  halt  and 
blind  and  dumb  without  its  morning  paper. 

Now  the  newspaper  is  conceived  to  be  a  mirror  and  a 
mentor.  It  is  expected  to  give  the  news  with  the  gusto  of 
a  town-crier  and  the  impartiality  of  a  phonograph.  Its 
function  is  to  narrate  to  every  section  of  the  community, 
from  the  baseball  "fans"  and  the  chess  players  to  the 
financiers  and  the  men  about  town,  all  the  happenings 
which  they  require  to  know  for  their  business  or  pleasure. 
As  news-gatherer,  it  is  not  presumed  to  be  above  its  patrons, 
and  it  dutifully  gives  information  about  prize  fights  which 
in  its  editorial  columns  it  becomingly  condemns.  At  the 
same  time,  by  reason  of  a  virtue  inhering  in  the  editorial 
"  we,"  the  newspaper  is  supposed,  like  the  chorus  of  an  antique 
play,  to  provide  with  the  news  a  running  moral  commentary, 
to  expound,  interpret,  prophesy,  and  enthuse. 

But  the  newspaper,  for  better  or  worse,  is  not  a  heaven- 
endowed  instrument,  independent  of  terrestrial  condi- 
tions and  considerations.  Journalism  is  a  business,  like 
politics,  brewing,  and  agriculture.  Like  all  businesses, 
it  is  subject  to  the  prevailing  money  economy.  A  journal 
may  be  ever  so  independent  in  politics,  but  it  is  never, 
except  in  a  few  negligible  cases,  independent  of  money 
or  the  need  of  profits.     It  is  through  profits,  that  cours- 


\ 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  123 

ing  life-blood  of  all  commercial  enterprises,  that  the  virus 
of  corruption  enters  into  the  body  of  journalism. 

A  generation  or  two  ago  the  influence  of  money  upon  jour- 
nalism was  smaller  than  it  is  to-day.  The  thin  little  news- 
papers of  those  days  depended  for  survival  and  success  upon 
their  subscribers,  other  sources  of  income  being  practically 
negligible.  Frequently  these  papers  were  poor,  usually 
intemperate,  often  ignorant,  but  they  were  always  stripped 
for  action,  and  were  not  readily  muzzled  or  bought.  The 
untempted  editor,  perhaps  a  college  graduate,  perhaps  a 
semi-informed  typesetter,  towered  above  the  inconspicuous 
and  adventitious  advertiser,  and  high  above  Wall  Street, 
Lombard  Street,  and  all  the  serried  hosts  of  Mammon. 
After  all,  it  did  not  pay  to  corrupt  newspapers  which  sprang 
up  like  mushrooms  in  many  dark  places.  So  long  as  men 
had  as  free  access  to  journalism  as  to  the  continent,  so 
long  as  any  youth  who  could  borrow  a  hand  press  might 
start  a  new  journal  in  garret  or  hall  bedroom,  there  was 
no  great  encouragement  to  the  financiers  to  pit  their  in- 
fluence against  the  omnipresent  influence  of  the  newspaper 
reader. 

Within  the  last  generation  the  fundamental  conditions 
of  the  newspaper  business  have  so  changed  as  to  make 
journals  far  more  susceptible  to  financial  blandishments. 
Advertisers,  finding  printer's  ink  more  efficacious  than 
painted  signs,  sandwich-men,  and  barkers,  invaded  the 
newspapers.  As  a  result  of  the  standardization  of  business, 
the  producer  was  enabled  to  appeal  with  his  one  standard 
soap  or  fountain  pen  over  the  heads  of  the  middlemen 
directly  to  the  people,  and  this  big  producer  advertised 
through  newspaper  and  magazine,  whereas  the  middle- 
man had  used  the  modest  handbill.  Advertising  became 
increasingly  profitable,  and  the  advertisement-swollen  jour- 
nals, especially  after  the  advent  of  the  lineotype,  grew  in 
bulk,  if  not  in  specific  gravity.     Since  advertising  value 


124  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

depends  upon  circulation,  the  newspaper,  in  order  to  secure 
circulation,  was  forced  to  offer  itself  to  the  reader  for  much 
less  than  cost.  Two  thirds  of  the  newspaper  revenues 
came  from  advertising  business  interests;  news  and  edi- 
torial became  a  pendant  to  commercial  offerings.  The 
newspaper  reader,  though  he  had  never  asked  for  alms, 
had  become  pauperized. 

Year  by  year,  the  subservience  of  the  editorial  to  the 
business  policy  of  the  newspaper  becomes  more  apparent. 
It  is  a  matter  of  common  knowledge,  reenforced  by  much 
direct  evidence,  that  many  journals  will  not  print  news 
adverse  to  local  department  stores.  Rather  the  loss  of  a 
thousand  subscribers  than  the  slightest  animadversion  upon 
these  Atlases  of  city  journalism.  Public  franchise  cor- 
porations, banks,  railroads,  and  other  great  undertakings 
enjoy  a  lesser,  though  still  considerable,  immunity.  Some 
journals  maintain  a  black  list  of  proscribed  people,  to  be 
ignored  or  persistently  ridiculed,  and  a  corresponding 
white  list  of  happy  immunes,  who  may  indulge  in  treason, 
parricide,  or  sacrilege  without  fear  of  the  interviewer. 
Scandalous  actions  by  proteges  are  covered  with  the  cloak 
of  kindly  silence,  for  our  press,  though  communicative, 
knows  how  to  keep  a  secret.  A  sensational  suicide  is 
omitted  from  the  newspaper  to  make  room  for  an  advertise- 
ment from  the  suicide's  father.  Of  course,  if  any  jour- 
nal turns  State's  evidence,  and,  from  good  motives  or  bad, 
blurts  out  the  truth,  the  conspiracy  of  silence  gives  way 
to  a  conspicuous  competition  to  furnish  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  columns  upon  the  hitherto  forbidden  topic. 

Such  suppression  of  specific  news  (some  of  which  might 
well  be  generally  suppressed,  or  at  least  telescoped),  while, 
under  the  circumstances,  immoral  and  invidious,  does 
not  constitute  a  transcendent  factor  in  the  society-wide 
struggle  between  plutocracy  and  democracy.  It  is  rather 
a  transgression  pro  domo;    a  taking  care  of  one's  friends. 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  125 

Of  greater  importance  is  an  influence  which  the  plu- 
tocracy learns  to  exert  upon  the  general  tone  of  newspapers. 
There  are  many  ways  of  exerting  this  influence  without 
an  actual  purchase  of  the  journal.  In  a  choice  between 
approximately  equal  mediums  of  publicity,  a  great  adver- 
tiser often  favors  journals  which  more  closely  approxi- 
mate his  views.  A  trust  pays  directly  or  indirectly  for  the 
printing  of  news  or  comment,  valuable  to  it  individually, 
or  to  big  business  generally.  It  furnishes  free  copy,  together 
with  paid  advertising.  It  subsidizes  the  furnishing  of 
"  boiler-plate "  material  to  country  papers.  As  the  great 
journalistic  enterprises  grow,  as  the  margin  of  loss  on  each 
copy  is  spread  over  a  larger  circulation,  as  the  necessity 
for  credit  facilities  increases,  the  plutocracy,  through  its 
control  of  a  hierarchy  of  banks,  sets  its  seal  upon  the  pol- 
icy of  an  increasing  number  of  journals.  The  owner  of  the 
paper,  usually  a  man  of  wealth  and  debts,  is  subjected  to 
financial  pressure  upon  his  newspaper  and  outside  ven- 
tures, as  well  as  to  social  and  political  pressure. 

The  trend  of  plutocratic  domination  of  the  press  has  been 
from  influence  to  control  and  from  control  to  ownership.  The 
newspaper  in  the  course  of  time  became  for  men  of  large  wealth 
a  personal  asset  greater  than  was  represented  by  its  ac- 
tual money  profits.  It  was  like  the  old  court  which  went 
with  the  manor,  in  which  justice  might  be  dispensed,  im- 
munity sold,  or  private  vengeance  wreaked.  The  pur- 
chased newspaper  might  offer  sanctuary  to  the  wealthy 
transgressor,  who  knew  not  where  to  lay  his  reputation. 
It  might,  with  every  semblance  of  virtue,  surreptitiously 
connive  at  its  owner's  raid  upon  the  public  treas- 
ury. The  progressive  development  of  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness tended  to  increase  this  plutocratic  ownership  of  pa- 
pers, in  whole  or  in  part.  Divorced  from  the  dwindling 
personality  of  its  editor,  become  a  thing  of  stocks  and  bonds, 
the  newspaper  soon  became  vendible  in  parts,  and  sub- 


126  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ject  to  that  law  of  business  integration  by  which  small 
enterprises  tend  to  become  subsidiary  to  larger  ones.  As 
the  trust  often  bought  out  the  political  party,  instead  of 
continuing  to  buy  its  product,  legislation,  so  it  now  bought 
out  its  needed  newspapers,  instead  of  continuing  to  buy 
their  products,  predigested  news,  and  sterilized  editorials. 

This  influence  of  the  plutocracy  over  the  press,  like  its 
influence  over  the  political  party,  was  not  obtained  in  the 
first  instance  as  the  result  of  a  class-conscious  policy,  but 
by  each  man  securing  the  publicity  facilities  which  he 
needed  for  his  business  or  preferment.  As  time  went  on, 
however,  the  plutocracy's  control  of  publicity,  like  its  con- 
trol of  politics,  became  standardized,  systematized,  and 
subtilized.  It  became  possible  for  large  corporations 
to  lend  each  other  their  respective  publicity,  like  their 
political,  facilities.  The  daily  of  an  Eastern  street  rail- 
way magnate  defended  all  manner  of  spoliation  in  West 
and  North  and  South.  A  "ring"  newspaper  in  a  Middle 
Western  city  fought  direct  primaries  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 
A  newspaper  taking  the  popular  side  in  a  local  contest 
found  that  it  was  offending  a  larger  advertiser,  who  was 
a  financial  dependent  of  a  beneficiary  of  an  ally  of  the  in- 
terests attacked.  Large  corporations  conducted  publicity 
departments  through  astute  newspaper  men,  who  knew 
the  journalistic  ropes  as  the  paid  lobbyist  knew  the  legis- 
lative ropes.  The  campaign  of  the  corporation  was  spe- 
cific and  subtle.  So  long  as  it  secured  what  it  wanted, 
silence  or  a  defense,  the  corporation  did  not  care  how  rabid 
was  the  newspaper  in  general  discussions.  In  publicity 
as  in  politics,  bought  demagogues  had  their  place  and  office, 
*md  were  not  without  their  reward. 

The  control  over  publicity  becomes  more  systematic 
as  the  newspaper  business  becomes  concentrated.  Dur- 
ing the  last  fifteen  years  the  number  of  newspapers  has  been 
rapidly  declining  in  proportion  to  population,  and  an  en- 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  127 

larging  share  of  the  circulation  is  going  to  a  relatively 
decreasing  number  of  journals.  Chains  of  newspapers  are 
established  in  various  cities,  and  unacknowledged  alli- 
ances are  formed  between  papers  controlled  by  allied  busi- 
ness interests.  The  old  resort  of  the  public  —  to  start  a 
new  journal  —  is  no  longer  so  available.  The  success  of 
such  new  and  independent  journals  becomes  problemati- 
cal, because  of  the  competition  of  venal  periodicals,  sub- 
sidized by  advertisers,  or  maintained  by  big  business  in- 
terests at  a  profitable  loss.  The  strategic  value  of  the 
venal  paper  may  be  heightened  by  its  being  a  member 
in  a  powerful  and  rigorously  exclusive  press  association, 
membership  in  which  gives  a  monopoly  value,  superior  to 
that  of  membership  in  a  stock  exchange.  A  new  journal 
of  protest  might  not  even  secure  a  news  service. 

In  the  matter  of  journalistic  independence  we  are  los- 
ing the  safety  which  inheres  in  a  multitude  of  counselors. 
We  are  putting  our  eggs  into  one  basket. 

But  the  advantage  of  putting  your  eggs  into  one  bas- 
ket is  that  you  are  more  likely  to  watch  that  basket.  De- 
spite the  greater  control  of  newspaper  publicity  by  the 
plutocracy,  that  control  remains  qualified,  partial,  and 
subject  to  certain  counteracting  and  curative  forces. 

In  the  first  place  many  of  the  faults  of  our  garrulous 
and  somewhat  slipshod  and  unveracious  press  are  due 
not  to  the  plutocracy,  as  we  love  to  believe,  but  to  our 
own  careless,  exaggerating,  and  scandal-loving  selves. 
On  our  sober  days  we  protest  against  the  journalistic  pur- 
veying of  lies.  We  long  for  a  pure  food  law  which  would 
apply  to  intellectual  aliments,  which  would  compel  an  edi- 
tor to  give  with  each  newspaper  "story"  the  exact  propor- 
tions of  suppression,  indirection,  false  emphasis,  subtle 
detraction,  and  other  ingredients.  And  yet,  we  millions  of 
readers  do  not  skip  the  highly  improbable  and  dubious 
details  of  a  murder,  accident,  or  divorce  to  improve  our 


128  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

minds  with  an  editorial  on  the  "  Reform  of  Procedure  in 
Magistrates  Courts."  In  our  discursive  newspaper  read- 
ing we  seem  to  prefer  recreation  to  culture,  vivacity  to 
exactness,  and  two  half-truths  to  one  whole  one. 

Still  more  important  is  the  fact,  almost  invariably  over- 
looked, that  much  of  the  vilification  in  which  some  of  our 
newspapers  indulge  is  in  the  supposed  interest,  not  of  the 
plutocracy,  but  of  ourselves,  the  great  crowd.1  Many 
unpopular  causes,  good  and  bad,  are  subjected  to  an  habit- 
ual misrepresentation;  many  men,  good  and  bad,  who  do 
not  square  with  popular  beliefs  and  prejudices,  are  over- 
whelmed with  an  unbelievable  mass  of  printed  false- 
hood. There  are  some  plutocratic  journals  which  are 
above  these  man-hunts,  just  as  there  are  some  democratic 
journals  which  delight  in  them.  The  cure  for  these  jour-" 
nalistic  lynchings,  unlike  the  cure  of  other  newspaper  evils, 
lies  not  in  the  democratization  of  the  press^  but  in  the  in- 
tellectual and  moral  progress  of  the  democracy/ 

Not  all  the  evils  connected  with  our  rapid  newspaper 
growth  are  due  to  the  plutocracy.  Not  all  attempts  to 
"  influence "  the  press  are  successful.  Our  editors  have 
their  full  share  of  our  common  instinctive  honesty,  and 
journalistic  probity  does  not  succumb  to  a  single  temptation.2 

1  Newspapers,  like  statesmen,  generals,  authors,  saloon-bullies,  and  the 
rest  of  us,  like  to  have  the  backing  of  the  crowd.  Even  the  debauched 
journal,  hugging  the  illusion  of  its  innocence,  delights  to  gain  even  the  tem- 
porary approval  of  a  public  to  which  it  is  bound  by  the  dual  hope  of  sub- 
scription and  advertisement.  Like  Falstaff,  it  will  not  "turn  upon  the 
true  prince,"  but  is  "a  coward  on  instinct."  But  when,  backed  by  a 
million  careless  readers,  it  attacks  one  friendless  man  or  one  lonely  woman ; 
when,  in  defense  of  things  which  have  been  believed  for  all  time,  it  makes 
a  desperate  charge  against  the  first,  halting,  half-formulated  conception 
of  a  new  truth,  not  the  Numidian  lion  may  compare  with  it  for  courage. 

2  While  some  struggling  journals  buy  their  independence  at  an  enormous 
financial  sacrifice,  others,  with  greater  money  resources,  lightly  sell  them- 
selves on  a  cold  calculation  of  profits.  There  are  great  newspapers  — 
prominent  and  decorous  —  who  surrender  themselves  to  a  sleek  political 
prostitution  without  the  excuse  either  of  passion  or  poverty. 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  129 

A  certain  safety  lies  in  the  multiplicity  of  forces  influenc- 
ing the  newspaper.  It  seldom  if  ever  happens  that  all  ad- 
vertisers, or  a  large  majority,  desire  the  suppression  of  the 
identical  news,  or  the  printing  of  the  identical  falsehood, 
even  though  many  of  them  may  be  agreed  upon  a  more  or 
less  definite  deflection  of  newspaper  policy.  Many  ad- 
vertisers have  the  same  interests  as  have  the  readers. 
Advertisers  are,  after  all,  primarily  interested  in  selling 
goods,  not  in  distorting  facts  or  in  expounding  political 
philosophies.  Again,  the  value  of  the  newspaper  to  the 
advertiser  depends  upon  its  readers,  and,  since  readers 
fall  off  if  they  do  not  get  what  they  think  is  the  news,  the 
paper  is  often  obliged  to  sacrifice  an  advertiser  or  two  for 
the  sake  of  a  pregnant  circulation.  Such  a  policy  pleases 
advertisers  unaffected  by  the  particular  "story,"  since  it 
gives  the  " independent"  journal  a  prestige  which  casts 
a  reflected  glory  on  the  men  who  advertise  in  its  columns. 

Although  much  news  is  suppressed  and  other  news 
is  colored,  although,  by  reason  of  the  veto  of  moneyed  men, 
the  editorials  often  tend  to  become  vapid  and  timid,  yet 
it  is  perhaps  no  great  exaggeration  to  say  that  the  man  who 
pays  his  penny  for  the  newspaper  exerts  in  the  mass,  even 
to-day,  a  more  open,  if  not  actually  a  stronger,  influence 
upon  its  expressed  opinion  than  the  ten-thousand-dollar 
advertiser  or  the  million-dollar  creditor.  The  pressure 
of  the  plutocracy  is  less  insistent  upon  the  journal  than 
upon  the  political  party,  because  the  newspaper  reader 
votes  every  day  and  enjoys  the  privilege  of  initiative,  refer- 
endum, and  recall.  If  he  does  not  like  the  paper,  he  changes 
without  so  much  as  a  letter  to  the  editor. 

The  venal  newspaper  is  thus  like  the  rope  in  a  tug  of  war. 
The  subscribers  pull  it  their  way  by  the  implied  threat 
to  withdraw  their  pennies ;  financial  groups  exercise  their 
"pull"  through  the  threat  of  withdrawing  advertisements 
or  credit.     The  editor,  once  a  power  and  a  voice,  has  ceased 


130  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

to  be  anything  but  an  umpire,  the  paid  servant  of  the  owner, 
who  in  turn  is  the  servant  of  his  customers.  The  journal, 
acknowledging  a  double  or  even  a  multiple  allegiance, 
becomes  intellectually  and  morally  cross-eyed. 

-The  result  is  that  each  element  in  the  community  re- 
ceives from  the  venal  newspaper  what  it  is  able  to  extort 
or  willing  to  purchase.  In  many  of  our  great  city  journals, 
workingmen,  who  (because  of  their  smaller  general  pur- 
chasing capacity)  are  among  the  less  valuable  of  sub- 
scribers, do  not  receive  fair  treatment  in  news  or  edito- 
rial, but  are  promise-crammed,  and  fed  with  large  phrases. 
Ignorant  groups  receive  a  counterfeit  sympathy  but  no  real 
assistance.  The  intelligent  reader,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
a  formidable  and  imperious  person,  who  gets  in  journal- 
ism what  he  wants,  or  something  like  it,  not  only  because 
his  penny  is  needed,  but  because  if  he  does  not  read  the 
paper,  the  advertiser  will  not  advertise  in  it.  As  for  the 
bias  of  the  paper,  the  intelligent  reader  learns  it  and  dis- 
counts it.  He  does  not  follow  the  editorial  —  at  least,  not 
very  far.  The  editorial  follows  him.  As  for  the  news,  he 
does  not  believe  what  he  reads,  but  reads  what  he  believes. 
Potentially,  the  subscribers  are  more  powerful  than  any 
corrupting  financial  interests,  because  in  the  final  analy- 
sis, a  journal  is  not  a  journal  unless  read.  Actually,  the 
subscribers  are  effective  in  proportion  as  they  are  intelli- 
gent and  unitedly  determined  that  the  news  shall  be  unv 
sophisticated,  and  the  editorials  their  own.  Adultera- 
tion of  news,  like  adulteration  of  other  products  for  sale, 
is  incited  by  profits,  but  is  limited  by  the  public's  recog- 
nition that  the  article  is  adulterated. 

The  influence  of  the  plutocracy  on  the  newspaper,  even 
on  the  newspaper  which  it  secretly  owns,  is  thus  so  circum- 
scribed that  its  teachings  are  necessarily  subtle,  and  its 
suggestions  indirect.  The  plutocracy  does  not  proclaim 
that   political   corruption,   misery,   slums,   unequal   distri- 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC   OPINION  131 

bution  of  wealth,  and  other  present-day  evils  are  good. 
We  could  not  be  made  to  believe  it.  Nor  are  we  taught 
that  democracy  is  bad.  We  could  not  be  made  to  believe 
that.  We  are  rather  taught  that  while  evil  exists,  proposed 
remedies  are  always  worse.  We  are  cautioned  against 
flying  to  evils  that  we  know  not  of ;  against  following  our 
natural  leaders ;  against  adopting  any  of  the  means  nec- 
essary to  attain  the  democratic  ends  so  grudgingly  ap- 
proved. 

The  plutocratic  influence  on  public  opinion,  in  so  far 
as  it  is  not  merely  an  effort  to  justify  certain  men  or  par- 
ticular financial  manipulations,  is  directed  in  this  covert 
manner  against  innovation.  The  doctrine  of  "let  well, 
enough  alone"  is  advocated  by  those  who  prosper  inordi- 
nately. Our  conservative  traditions  are  fulsomely  praised, 
while  democratic  experiments  are  derided  and  their  in- 
evitable failure  prophesied.  The  appeal  is  always  to  the 
old.  New  laws  and  constitutions  are  too  likely  to  be  demo- 
cratic. For  the  mass  of  new  ideas  fermenting  in  popu- 
lar movements  (in  the  democracies  of  1800  and  1828,  in 
the  Abolitionist,  Free  Soil,  Early  Republican,  Labor,  Popu- 
list, Socialist  parties),  for  all  manifestations  of  democratic 
humanitarianism,  the  plutocracy  has,  and  has  always  had, 
nothing  but  contempt  —  and  fear.  The  plutocracy  exalts 
good,  old,  judicial  precedents,  and  its  patriotism  takes  on 
a  mellow,  meerschaum,  retrospective  tinge,  which  is  mere 
reactionism,  as  opposed  to  a  patriotism  which  looks  forward 
to  a  better  America. 

The  plutocracy  preaches  individual  liberty,  the  glorious 
fruits  of  free  contract,  the  doctrine  of  the  influence  of  good 
men,  the  survival  of  the  fittest  in  business,  an  untram- 
meled  individualism,  a  tame  state  with  a  ring  through 
its  nose.  It  believes  that  while  government  is  wise  enough 
to  put  us  in  jail,  it  is  not  honest  enough  to  be  intrusted 
with  our  money  or  our  business.     The  plutocracy  throws 


132  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  mantle  of  property  rights  over  things  improperly  ob- 
tained. It  decries  confiscation,  specifying  measures  of 
taxation  and  regulation,  not  confiscatory  in  intention. 
It  tolerates  discussion  but  opposes  " agitation."  It  ad- 
mits popular  rights  but  decries  the  "mob."  It  combats 
the  representation  of  the  weaker  elements  in  the  commu- 
nity by  "agitators,"  "demagogues"  and  "walking  dele- 
gates." Finally,  in  its  appeal  to  the  God  of  things  as  they 
are,  the  plutocracy  places  its  faith  in  checks,  balances, 
safeguards,  and  the  letter  of  an  obsolescent  law. 

But  the  plutocracy,  much  against  its  will,  must  defend 
too  much.  Sharing  the  same  political  bed  with  little  crooks, 
it  is  obliged  from  time  to  time  to  plead  their  cause  before 
the  tribunal  of  public  opinion.  The  respectable  jour- 
nals of  respectable,  free-booting  financiers  must  occasion- 
ally defend  the  immigrant  bank  against  the  defrauded  immi- 
grant, the  sweatshop  against  the  sweated,  the  loan  shark 
against  his  dupe,  even  the  ward  bruiser  against  the  com- 
plaining citizen.  Democracy  in  small  things  must  often 
be  checked,  because  by  a  rigorous  logic  it  may  be  extended 
to  big  things.  The  plutocrat  does  not  like  the  stunting 
of  the  poor,  but  laws  intended  to  prevent  poverty  may 
shatter  the  very  foundations  of  privilege.  The  plutoc- 
racy—  no  wiser  than  the  rest  of  us  —  is  a  little  confused. 
It  has  bad  dreams.  It  is  alternately  too  rash  and  too  tim- 
orous. It  does  not  always  know  what  to  do  with  its  news- 
papers after  it  has  bought  them. 

Moreover,  in  its  control  of  the  newspaper,  the  plutoc- 
racy has  not  to  deal  with  an  inert  public  opinion,  which 
cannot  strike  back.  Just  as  the  plutocracy's  control  of 
industry  and  of  politics  evokes  a  spirit  of  revolt,  so  its 
more  partial  control  of  the  newspaper,  as  it  becomes  visi- 
ble, evokes  a  more  or  less  distinct  reaction  within  public 
opinion  against  the  plutocracy.  Newspapers  which  too 
openly  espouse  the  plutocracy's  cause  often  lose  in  cir- 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  133 

culation  to  journals  assuming  a  more  popular  attitude. 
Simultaneously  new  journals  of  protest  arise,  winning  their 
way  against  great  financial  obstacles,  and  a  fresh  outlet  for 
public  opinion  is  evolved  in  the  popular,  "  muck-raking/ ' 
reformatory  magazine. 

/*"-*  The  magazine  suffers,  like  the  newspaper,  from  the  very 
conditions  which  make  for  its  extension  and  popularity; 
in  other  words,  from  a  preponderance  of  advertising  reve- 
nues, and  a  circulation  at  a  price  below  cost.    Being  national 

\in  scope,  however,  it  is  at  least  freer  from  local  pressure, 
and  it  is  never  so  dependent  upon  a  single  class  of  adver- 
tisers as  is  the  city  newspaper  upon  the  department  stores. 
Moreover,  because  of  its  freedom  from  narrow  geographical 
limits,  it  is  able  to  seek  from  the  enormous  population 
of  the  country  a  larger  number  of  like-minded  people. 
Consequently,  the  popular  magazine  is  perhaps  more  sinf- 
ple,  direct,  progressive,  and  dignified  than  is  the  daily  news- 
paper, and  despite  the  narrow  gauntlet  which  it  runs,  be- 
tween its  increasing  cost  of  production  and  its  lowered  price 
it  has  hitherto  managed  better  than  the  newspaper 
maintain  its  independence.  To  a  considerable  extent  the 
reformatory  magazine  is  a  powerful  antidote  to  those  of  our 
newspapers  which,  while  much-protesting  against  distant 
evils,  are  singularly  charitable  towards  offenders  nearer 
home. 

While  the  magazine,  like  other  business  organs  of  pub- 
licity, does  not  therefore  enjoy  an  absolute  freedom  in 
choosing  sides,  still  the  tendency  during  the  last  decade 
seems  to  have  been  towards  an  increasing  circulation  and 
profitableness  of  periodicals  representing  democratic  ideals, 
or,  what  is  even  more  important,  of  periodicals  impar- 
tially presenting  in  a  popular  manner  the  facts  of  our 
contemporary  life,  upon  which  democratic  action  may  ulti- 
mately be  based.  It  is  not  impossible,  of  course,  nor  even 
improbable,  that  an  increasingly  determined  attempt  will 


be- 
ice, 
to\ 
the  J 


134  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

be  made  by  financial  interests,  hostile  to  democracy,  to 
secure  control  of  the  magazines.  In  repelling  such  attacks, 
however,  the  magazine  reader  should  be  more  successful 
than  is  the  newspaper  reader,  for  the  reader  is  less  de- 
pendent upon  the  magazine  than  upon  the  newspaper, 
while  the  magazine  is  even  more  dependent  than  is 
the  newspaper  upon  the  reader.  The  reader's  prefer- 
ences in  magazines  are  balanced  to  the  finest  point,  and 
the  slightest  change  in  policy,  by  pleasing  or  displeas- 
ing the  million,  may  mean  .stupendous  success  or  irretriev- 
able failure.  Our  magazines,  like  ourselves,  are  very  far 
from  our  ideal,  but  their  merits  are  our  merits,  and  their 
faults,  our  faults.  The  magazine,  though  often  trivial,  someP 
times  banal,  and  occasionally  vicious  and  timidly  obscene, 
is  on  the  whole  more  representative  of  the  majority  of 
the  people  than  is  the  newspaper.  ^,^— 

Even  were  all  magazines  and  newspapers  to  be  controlled 
and  muzzled  (which  is  hardly  conceivable)  it  would  not 
be  possible  to  hold  down  the  popular  intelligence.  The 
medieval  method  of  cutting  off  thought  by  cutting  off 
the  head  is  no  longer  applicable.  Truth  to-day  is  a  vol- 
atile gas,  a  great  deal  of  which  will  escape  through  a  very 
small  hole.  Close  up  the  newspapers,  close  up  the  maga- 
zines, and  truth  will  flow  out  through  other  outlets. 

Of  such  outlets  there  are  many.  A  wide  and  free  forum 
is  provided  by  books,  which,  whatever  their  tendency  or 
bias,  can  be  printed  if  a  thousand  people  will  buy  them. 
An  enormous  amount  of  uncontrolled  literature  in  the 
form  of  pamphlets,  circulars,  reports  of  societies,  etc.,  is 
constantly  circulated.  Nor  is  there  an  effective  censor- 
ship of  the  play.  The  Theatrical  Trust,  although  on  pleas- 
ure bent,  preserves  a  frugal  mind,  and  this  obedient,  un- 
discerning  servant  of  the  two-dollar-an-evening  public 
would  as  soon  scuttle  a  ship  as  sacrifice  box  receipts  to 
the   preachment  of  reactionary  principles.     As   for  pulpit 


THE   PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  135 

utterances  —  if  sermons  are  directed  too  exclusively  to  the 
solace  of  the  wealth-burdened,  the  poor  stay  from  church. 

Even  our  privately  endowed  universities,  dependent  for 
the  bulk  of  their  revenues  upon  the  free  gifts  of  the  plu- 
tocracy, follow  the  general  direction  of  the  popular  mind, 
and  give  to  it  tone,  character,  and  an  ethical  interpretation. 
Although  men  have  been  released  from  University  faculties 
because  of  their  expressed  opinions,  and  others  have  not 
been  appointed  because  of  their  anticipated  views,  still 
v  academic  freedom  seems  to  be  rather  on  the  increase  than 
on  the  decrease.  Curiously  enough,  while  there  has  been 
a  certain  pernicious  influence  of  great  fortunes  upon  Uni- 
versity teaching,  it  is  quite  credible  that  every  million 
contributed  to  universities  out  of  our  existing  inequality 
of  wealth  renders  a  similar  inequality  less  probable  in  the 
future.  Political  economy  is  taught  by  professors  of  chem- 
istry, physics,  and  gymnastics,  as  well  as  by  professors 
of  political  economy.  Let  the  alma  mater  be  ever  so  cir- 
cumspect, her  children  will  not  escape  contamination. 
Just  as  in  the  early  pre-aseptic  days  hospitals  were  more 
dangerous  than  slums  or  battle  fields,  so  to-day  you  are 
as  likely  to  catch  new  ideas  in  a  trust-endowed  university 
as  in  a  factory  or  a  tenement  house.  Despite  itself,  the 
plutocracy  subsidizes  discontent  and  revolt.  The  plu- 
tocracy teaches  more  than  it  knows.  .^ 

The  issue  is  not  yet  decided,  but  as  we  review  the  field, 
it  seems  as  though  the  plutocracy's  assault  upon  public 
opinion,  like  its  assault  upon  politics,  invites  its  own  failure 
by  invoking  a  redoubled  defense.  The  plutocracy  strives 
for  the  possession  of  derelict  newspapers  and  magazines; 
the  popular  mind  strives  for  self-possession.  The  price 
of  intellectual  liberty  and  intactness  is  not  only  intellectual 
development,  but  eternal  vigilance.  L* 

It  is  because  of  this  vigilance,  because  of  a  constant, 
though  casual,  relation  which  the  people  maintain  towards 


136  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

e  organs  of  public  opinion,  that  the  plutocracy's  control 
of  the  public  mind  is  by  no  means  complete.  After  all, 
the  newspaper,  the  magazine,  and  the  printed  book  are 
merely  organs  of  public  opinion.  They  are  not  public 
opinion  itself.  Back  of  them  all  lies  the  mind  of  the  nation, 
fed  by  sights,  sounds,  conversations;  a  mind  more  or  less 
excitable  and  transient  in  its  manifestations,  but  main- 
taining itself  for  the  most  part  with  a  certain  tenacious 
sanity.  Not  all  the  combined  organs  of  public  opinion  can 
convert  the  population  to  lies  too  gross  and  palpable,  nor 
to  truths  too  unpleasant,  and  a  thousand  " special  articles" 
cannot  prove  that  the  shoe  does  not  pinch.  Bruises  and 
pains  teach  as  well  as  sermons,  and  a  butcher's  bill  may 
be  more  edifying  than  an  eloquent  editorial. 

</"The  growing  wisdom  of  the  people  is  the  final  and  irre- 
futable answer  to  the  plutocracy's  attempts  to  corner  the 
intellectual  market.  More  and  more  the  people  insist 
upon  doing  some  of  their  own  thinking. 
k  Now  the  voice  of  the  people,  the  adage  to  the  contrary, 
is  not  necessarily  the  voice  of  God.  In  some  lands  and 
at  some  times  it  is  but  a  babbling,  obscene,  and  intol- 
erant clamor.  Public  opinion  may  either  be,  as  Sir  Robert 
Peel  defined  it,  a  "  great  compound  of  folly,  weakness, 
prejudice,  wrong  feeling,  right  feeling,  obstinacy,  and  news- 
paper paragraphs, "  or  it  may  be  the  temperate,  slowly  formed, 
and  definitely  formulated  consensus  of  a  free  and  resolute 
people.  In  countries  used  to  its  rule,  it  is  more  responsible 
and  intelligent  than  in  lands  where  it  is  violent  because 
repressed.  Public  opinion  in  Switzerland,  the  home  of 
the  referendum,  is  very  different  from  public  opinion  in 
Nicaragua  or  Liberia. 

In  the  United  States,  despite  racial  and  territorial  cleav- 
ages (which  are  bound  to  be  wide  on  a  continent  settled 
by  immigrants),  we  have  a  broad  and  fairly  coherent  public 
^  opinion.     This  is  in  part  due  to  our  comparative  freedom 


THE  PLUTOCRACY  AND  PUBLIC  OPINION  137 

of  speech  and  press,  our  political  and  religious  tolerance, 
our  varied  facilities  for  interchanging  ideas  and  manifold- 
ing words,  our  relative  intelligence,  our  diffused  prosperity, 
and  our  possession  of  formal  political  rights.  "In  no  coun- 
try/ '  says  Mr.  Bryce,  "is  public  opinion  so  powerful  as  in 
the  United  States." 

This  public  opinion  is  at  times  still  confused  and  self- 
contradictory,  or  else  uninformed,  dwarfed,  and  hysterical, 
and  occasionally  it  degenerates  into  mob  opinion,  and  for 
brief  moments  whirls  in  dangerous,  ineffectual  eddies. 
Nevertheless  no  one  can  fairly  study  its  manifestations 
during  the  generation  since  Mr.  Bryce  wrote  without  being 
convinced  that  it  is  daily  becoming  more  powerful  and 
beneficent.  It  sweeps  over  opposition,  brushes  aside  legal 
technicalities,  and,  attaching  itself  to  democratic  leaders, 
backs  them  up  against  great  odds.  This  public  opinion 
emancipates  itself  even  from  the  newspaper  by  widening 
the  field  of  intellectual  supply.  The  average  city  man  now 
takes  two  newspapers.  He  also  reads  one  or  two  maga- 
zines. He  comes  in  hourly  contact  with  men  who  derive 
their  information  from  still  other  sources.  Like  his  coun- 
try neighbor,  he  is  less  stereotyped  than  was  his  father. ' 
He  is  also  more  wisely  skeptical.  fuuM*j  t 

To-day  public  opinion  is  seeking  to  become  the  rulinK 
power  in  America.     No  overt  opposition  can  withstand  it. 
It  cannot  be  bribed.     It  cannot  be  stifled.     To  overcome 
it,  the  people  must  be  fooled,  and,  year  by  year,  it  is  becom- 
ing more  difficult  to  fool  them.  /*r 

In  the  end,  therefore,  the  plutocracy  must  rest  its  case 
on  the  solid  ground  of  truth.  The  body  of  doctrine  which 
it  pours  into  press,  pulpit,  and  university  is  retarding, — 
but  that  is  all.  Evasions,  appeals  to  prejudice,  artfully 
induced  misconceptions,  half-truths,  quarter-truths,  and 
plain  lies  all  have  their  day,  as  have  lurid  exaggerations, 
acrid  personalities,  and  vague,  sensational  charges.    Abuse 


138  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

does  not  last.  You  can  drown  a  single  individual  in  printer's 
ink,  but  great  causes  and  solemn  charges  somehow  survive 
leaded  columns  and  italicized  ridicule.  When  the  whirl  of 
apologies,  charges,  and  countercharges  subsides,  as  it  always 
does  subside,  the  result  is  a  clearing  of  the  field  and  a  join- 
ing of  the  plain  issue,  whether  the  nation  will  be  ruled 
politically  by  industrial  despots,  or  whether  it  will  stumble 
forward  to  both  political  and  industrial  democracy.  The 
plutocracy  brought  before  the  court  of  highest  instance  is 
at  last  compelled  formally  to  plead. 


CHAPTER  X 

PLUTOCRACY  AND   EFFICIENCY 

THE  plutocracy  rests  its  defense  upon  the  ground  of 
historical  necessity.  It  has  come  to  be  because  it 
was  the  fittest  to  be.  It  survives  because  it  meets  our 
national  needs.  What  though  it  be  ugly,  smoky,  noisy, 
parsimonious,  murderous,  if,  all  things  considered,  the 
plutocracy  is  the  most  economical  form  of  national  or- 
ganization, then  it  will  live.  It  can  cure  itself  of  minor  ills. 
It  can  outgrow  youthful  immoderations,  for  the  plutocracy, 
it  must  be  remembered,  is  still  very  young.  The  plutocracy 
believes  that  the  American  will  not  exchange  an  effective 
for  an  ineffective  business  organization.  He  will  not 
quarrel  with  his  bread  and  butter. 

The  plutocracy  claims  to  be  a  progressive,  upbuilding 
force.  It  denies  that  it  is  reactionary,  as  was  the  oligarchic 
slave  power,  to  which  it  has  been  likened.  While,  politically, 
our  plutocracy  is  on  a  lower  level  than  was  the  slave  power; 
(because  depending  on  bribery  and  corruption),  it  is  in- 
dubitably in  the  van  of  one  form  of  economic  progress. 
Our  business  princes  develop  territories,  resuscitate  indus- 
tries, create  new  by-products. 

~The  plutocracy  cites  many  pages  of  statistics  to  prove 
(what  is  already  evident)  that  during  its  domination  we 
have  been  growing  stupendously  wealthy.  One  cannot  read 
our  government  bulletins  or  the  files  of  technical  journals; 
one  cannot  glance  over  the  daily  paper  or  walk  through  the 
streets,  without  realizing  that  in  everything  which  pertains 
to  material  progress  we  are  moving  at  a  giant's  pace. 
The  trust  puts  an  end  to  the  waste  and  brutality  of  an 

139 


140  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

unregulated  business  war.  The  trust  imposes  peace.  It 
may  be  the  peace  of  industrial  despotism.  But  it  is  peace.1 
The  plutocracy  admits  that  in  the  conflict  with  com- 
petitive business  the  trust  often  won  illegally.  But  illegality 
was  equally  the  weapon  of  its  rivals,  and  a  too  scrupulous 
respect  for  the  law  was  never  a  condition  of  the  contest. 
Even  without  such  illegalities  the  trust  would  have  been 
eventually  victorious,2  for  its  being  was  decreed  by  the 
law  of  business  evolution.  Even  trusts  burdened  by  an 
excessive  capitalization  survived  and  prospered,  because 
they  gave  a  greater  profit  than  their  constituent  companies 
had  done.  Combination,  where  possible,  made  competition 
impossible,  and,  if  combination  resulted  in  monopoly  and 

1  A  comparison  might  be  drawn  between  our  trusts  and  the  political 
despotisms  which  grew  up  with  the  nations  in  the  fifteenth,  sixteenth,  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  These  despotisms  represented  politically  the  bud- 
ding national  consciousness;  the  trusts  represent,  in  the  same  despotic 
way,  the  national  unity  of  business.  The  absolute  monarch  of  the  six- 
teenth century  put  down  the  feudal  lords  with  a  high  hand.  He  either 
attainted  the  nobles,  and  confiscated  their  estates,  or,  by  compelling  their 
attendance  at  court,  divorced  them  from  their  followers.  In  a  similar 
manner  our  industrial  despot  crushes  his  competitors  and  confiscates  their 
businesses.  Or  he  buys  them  out  and  compels  their  attendance  at  direc- 
tors' meetings.  Even  the  personalities  of  some  of  the  old  nation  builders 
illustrate  the  temper  of  our  trust  builders.  We  have  among  us  to-day 
the  craft  and  subtlety  of  a  Louis  the  Eleventh  of  France,  the  narrow  in- 
tensity of  a  Philip  the  Second  of  Spain ;  the  avariciousness  of  a  Henry  the 
Seventh  of  England  ;  the  intensely  ambitious  bonhomie  of  a  Henry  of  Na- 
varre; the  overweening  self -consciousness  of  a  "grand  monarch"  who 
could  boast  "UEtat  c'est  moi."  Finally,  before  we  leave  this  comparison, 
which  is,  of  course,  merely  illustrative,  our  despotic  plutocracy,  after  van- 
quishing the  business  leaders,  finds  itself  face  to  face  with  the  broader 
masses  of  the  people,  just  as  the  Bourbons,  having  at  last  made  France  one, 
found  themselves  on  a  certain  summer  day  of  1789  face  to  face  with  an 
awakened  French  nation. 

2  Had  the  Standard  Oil  Company  not  secured  a  practical  monopoly  of 
the  oil  business  through  railroad  rebates  in  the  seventies  and  eighties,  it 
is  highly  probable  that  either  that  company,  or  some  other,  would  have 
been  formed  in  1901  (or  earlier)  for  the  purpose  of  securing  control  of  the 
entire  oil  business. 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  141 

extortion,  these  were,  after  all,  goals  to  which  each  com- 
petitor of  the  trust  had  secretly  aspired. 
/  Because  of  its  alleged  efficiency,  the  plutocracy  claims 
remission  of  past  sins  and  indulgence  for  future  transgres- 
sions. We  forgave  the  pioneer  his  crudity,  recklessness, 
and  exaggerated  individualism,  because  for  his  time  he 
made  the  most  effective  use  of  the  still  unconquered  con- 
tinent. We  then  sent  gentlemen  to  Congress  whom  we 
should  now  send  to  jail,  and  we  then  rewarded  with  for- 
tunes men  who  might  to-day  end  in  almshouses.  At  the 
present  time,  on  this  argument,  our  toleration  of  the  old 
individualist  should  descend  to  the  equally  typical  repre- 
sentatives of  a  new  economic  development.  The  over- 
whelming of  the  citizens  at  the  polls  and  in  the  primaries, 
the  rise  of  a  more  subtle  and  ramified  political  corruption, 
the  evolution  of  a  powerful  boss,  were  but  the  political 
expression  of  a  contemporaneous  economic  evolution,  the  rise 
of  the  trust.  And  this  stupendous  development,  the  plutoc- 
racy insists,  was  but  a  step  in  a  progress  from  chaos  to 
order;  a  step  towards  a  wiser,  and  longer- viewed  exploita- 
tion of  the  continent. 

Not  only  does  the  plutocracy  assert  that  this  end  justifies 
the  means,  but  it  also  claims  that,  because  of  its  higher  in- 
dustrial organization,  it  has  a  broader  ethical  basis  and  a  wider 
program  of  social  reform  than  had  the  competitive  business 
which  preceded  it.  Not  being  so  hard  pressed  as  were  its 
forerunners,  the  plutocracy  can  afford  a  little  virtue.  Or, 
rather,  it  cannot  afford  not  to  have  a  little  virtue,  for  our 
growing  business  concentration  has  changed  the  incidence 
of  certain  industrial  evils,  so  that  they  who  cause  the  damage 
occasionally  suffer  from  it.  From  considerations  of  policy 
as  well  as  because  of  its  acknowledged  leadership  of  indus- 
try, the  plutocracy  has  been  obliged  to  accept  certain 
industrial  responsibilities,  and  has  thus  developed  its  own 
code  of  social  morality. 


142  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Under  the  old  regime,  competitors  did  not  mind  any 
conceivable  waste  of  natural  resources  or  human  lives. 
The  community  paid.  Jekyll  could  not  afford  philanthropy 
in  competition  with  Hyde.  With  increasing  concentration 
of  business  control,  however,  it  is  becoming  wiser  to  miti- 
gate certain  evils  of  unregulated  employment,  and  make 
the  additional  cost  a  fixed  charge  to  customers,  rather  than 
let  things  go  and  pay  the  cost  of  negligence  in  taxes.  The 
growing  popularity  of  company-paid  pensions  to  employees, 
of  welfare  work,  even  of  reductions  in  hours  —  although  these 
lave  another  side  —  is  indicative  of  a  certain  rudimentary 
sense  of  responsibility  on  the  part  of  big  business.  That 
this  broader  ethical  view  is  largely  determined  by  the  desire 
/or  profits  does  not  detract  from  its  social  beneficence. 

More  and  more,  though  as  yet  only  partially  and  grudg- 
ingly, the  ruling  plutocracy  gives  up  its  petty  business  cor- 
ruption, as  a  man  puts  away  childish  things.  It  finds  that 
it  does  not  pay  to  rob  its  own  cash  drawer.  The  mere 
progress  of  big  business  means  the  abolition  of  the  worst 
evils  of  little  business.  Under  a  plutocracy,  as  under  a 
democracy,  we  should  gradually  end  petty  adulterations, 
small  cheatings,  " truck  stores,"  " company  houses,"  and 
the  most  flagrant  abuses  of  patent  medicine  fakirs,  ticket 
speculators,  and  bucket-shop  keepers,  just  as  we  are  gradu- 
ally eliminating  the  burglar  and  the  bruiser  in  favor  of 
more  refined  members  of  an  antisocial  class.  Paramount 
among  all  considerations  is  the  welfare  of  big  business,  of 
the  super-financier.  Big  business  is  zealous  to  " reform" 
little  business  out  of  the  running.1  Even  the  dullest  of  our 
business  princes  are  beginning  to  see  that  to  a  certain  extent 
humanity  is  the  best  policy,  and  that  honesty  pays  where 

1  An  election  appeal  to  the  ten  commandments  may  mean  an  attack 
upon  the  little  business  of  vice  by  the  political  allies  of  the  big  business  of 
franchise  stealing.  The  man  who  takes  thousands  may  be  relegated  to  an 
innocuous  and  law-abiding  existence  by  the  taker  or  holder  of  millions. 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  143 

it  is  obvious  to  all.  The  improved  morale  of  the  huge  de- 
partment store,  with  its  ostentatious  noblesse  oblige  towards 
customers,  indicates  the  general  trend. 

Even  apart  from  an  improved  business  morale  due  to  the 
greater  publicity  and  extension  of  business,  the  plutocracy 
has  its  own  program  of  social  reform,  which  aims  to  recon- 
cile it  to  the  judgment  of  the  nation.  The  plutocracy's 
code  of  reform  includes  a  charity  designed  to  widen  the 
eye  of  the  needle.  It  is  a  business  charity,  with  organiza- 
tion and  prevention  of  waste;  with  efficiency  and  by- 
products. It  is  a  charity  which  has  evolved  (following 
industrial  changes)  from  the  instinctive,  soul-saving  giving 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  through  a  competitive,  shrieking, 
advertising  charity,  to  a  well-organized,  far-seeing  charity 
on  a  trust  basis.  The  plutocracy  believes  in  the  prevention 
of  non-economic  causes  of  poverty  in  so  far  as  such  pre- 
vention does  not  interfere  with  business  arrangements.  It 
believes  in  special  institutions  for  the  blind,  halt,  insane, 
feeble-minded.  It  believes  in  laws  against  child  beating, 
and,  with  reservations,  in  laws  against  child  labor.  It 
believes  in  welfare  work  for  employees.  It  assists  many 
forms  of  ameliorative  social  work. 

Other  ideals  of  the  plutocracy  are  of  larger  import.  The 
plutocracy  believes,  as  does  the  democracy,  in  an  increase 
of  national  productivity.  It  therefore  recognizes  the  ad- 
vantages of  education,  especially  of  a  technical  education, 
which  makes  the  nation  a  more  effective  industrial  group. 
It  desires  more  railroads  and  better  railroads,  improved 
technical  processes,  irrigation  of  deserts,  filling  in  of  swamps. 
It  usually  desires  peace,  social  security,  and  general  well- 
being.  It  is  opposed  to  an  unprofitable  waste  of  things 
which  cost  money.  It  desires  a  healthy  community  in 
which  all  men  can  work,  and  it  essays  the  extirpation  of 
contagious  diseases,  which  social  barriers  cannot  exclude 
from  the  homes  of  the  rich.     It  desires  the  governmental 


144  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

development  of  such  national  resources  as  cannot  be  profit- 
ably exploited  by  individuals,  and  it  encourages  unre- 
munerative  public  activities,  translatable  into  private 
profits.  Finally,  the  plutocracy  is  imbued  with  certain 
humanitarian,  artistic,  and  educational  ideals,  in  no  direct 
way  undermining  the  influence  or  lessening  the  welfare  of 
the  group. 

This  program  of  the  plutocracy,  halting  though  it  be,  is 
as  much  superior  to  the  negative  social  program  of  the 
earlier  individualist  as  is  the  organization  of  the  Standard 
Oil  Company  to  that  of  the  little  companies  which  have 
been  superseded.  If  the  plutocracy  were  attacked  by  indi- 
vidualists alone,  its  arguments  would  avail,  and  its  social 
p^program,  like  its  industrial  labors,  would  justify  its  existence. 

But  the  plutocracy  is  also  assailed  by  men  who  desire, 
not  a  return  to  individualism,  but  a  progress  toward  demo- 
cratic socialization.  These  opponents  of  the  plutocracy 
point  out  its  wastes,  inefficiencies,  and  injustices,  and  accuse 
it  of  standing  in  the  way  of  a  complete  harmonization  of 
our  industrial  organization  with  our  political  and  social 
aspirations. 

The  plutocracy's  argument  from  prosperity  is  turned 
against  itself.  v  Who  gets  the  prosperity?  /Why,  after  the 
wastes  of  production  have  been  so  largely  eliminated,  do  we 
still  suffer  from  overwork,  child  labor,  sweating,  industrial 
disease,  preventable  accident,  slums,  poverty,  wretchedness  ? 
Why  do  wages  remain  low  after  the  plutocracy  has  estab- 
lished a  little  order  in  industry?  Why  does  an  increasing 
inequality  accompany  an  improved  utilization  of  the  re- 
sources of  the  continent? 

In  lessening  the  wastes  of  production,  the  plutocracy 
has  increased  many  of  the  wastes  of  consumption.  By  im- 
proving industrial  processes  it  has  drawn  attention  to 
heightened  inequalities  of  distribution.  Our  senseless  in- 
equalities of  distribution,  from  our  new  point  of  view,  are 


y 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  145 

poor  economy  and  low  efficiency,  because  a  gross  inequality 
means  a  lessened  pleasure  in  the  consumption  of  wealth. 
A  masterpiece  of  art  in  a  private  gallery,  seen  by  a  hundred 
people,  gives  less  pleasure  than  would  the  same  master- 
piece in  a  public  gallery  seen  by  a  million  people.  A  million 
dollars  of  commodities  consumed  by  one  overrich  man 
gives  less  pleasure  than  would  the  same  sum  added  to  the 

1  expenditure  of  ten  thousand  people.  If  the  plutocracy's 
wiser  utilization  of  our  national  resources  leads  only  to  an 
increasing  inequality  of  wealth  and  income,  the  net  gain 
to  the  people  may  be  dubious. 

It  is  exactly  as  though  the  plutocracy,  with  its  brand- 
new  tool,  the  trust,  had  trebled  our  production  of  coal, 
but  had  distributed  the  fuel  so  badly,  overstoking  some 
boilers  and  understoking  others,  that  the  total  production 
of  heat  was  no  greater  than  before.  It  is  as  though  the 
plutocracy,  boasting  of  its  trebled  production  of  coal,  and 
exulting  in  its  increased  output  of  smoke  and  ashes,  had 
failed  to  realize  that  a  shivering  people  was  demanding,  not 
more  coal,  not  more  smoke,  not  more  ashes,  but  more  heat. 
What  the  people  want  is  not  wealth,  but  distributed  wealth  ; 
not  a  statistical  increase  in  the  national  income,  but  more 
economic  satisfactions,  more  widely  distributed. 
Vbur  new  economic  thought  emphasizes  as  the  industrial 
/goal  of  nations,  not  wealth  in  the  sense  of  objective  values, 
/  but  economic  pleasures  or  satisfactions.  The  older  concep- 
tion measured  value  in  terms  of  toil  or  pain  involved  in 
production,  or  the  sheer  scarcity  of  a  desired  article.  If 
potatoes  became  twice  as  hard  to  get,  they  became  twice 
as  valuable.  In  this  sense,  our  American  forests  are  more 
valuable  to-day,  are  worth  more,  than  they  were  thirty 
years  ago,  because  we  have  fewer  forests  and  they  are  more 
easily  monopolized.  If  to-day  we  could  increase  our  de- 
posits of  coal  one  hundred  fold,  the  nation  (according  to  the 
earlier  economics)  would  be  poorer  because  it  had  more  to 


\7146  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 


\ 


enjoy.  Much  that  we  count  as  wealth  is,  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  economic  satisfactions  of  the  community,  not 
wealth  at  all,  but  its  exact  opposite. 

Our  crassly  unequal  distribution  means  not  only  a  less 
effective  production,  but,  what  is  worse,  a  comparatively 
pleasureless  consumption  of  wealth.1  A  bad  distribution  of 
wealth  means  a  wasting  of  vast  quantities  of  labor  in  the 
manufacture  of  unprofitable  articles,  and  the  rendering  of 
unnecessary  services.  A  full-grown  footman  devoting  him- 
self to  the  cultivated  wants  of  a  gold-collared  puppy  as 
clearly  illustrates  wasted  social  labor  as  does  a  man  manu- 
facturing nails  by  hand  after  machinery  has  been  intro- 
duced, or  as  does  a  man  employed  in  a  small,  ill-equipped 
workshop  at  labor  which  can  better  be  done  in  a  large,  well- 
equipped  factory. 

The  Achilles-heel  of  the  Plutocratic  Economy,  as  of  the 
economy  which  preceded  it,  is  this  individualistic  and 
objective  conception  of  wealth.  It  makes  the  goal  of  our 
national  economy  the  increase  in  articles,  possessed  by  cer- 
tain citizens  and  demanded  by  others,  instead  of  an  increase 
in  the  economic  pleasure  derived  from  a  more  universal, 
varied,  and  harmonious  consumption.  The  plutocratic  con- 
ception identifies  wealth  with  gain,  with  the  individualistic 
accumulation  of  scarce  things.  The  plutocracy  stands  for 
"  business/ •  which  is  concerned  uniquely  with  profits,  and 
not,  like  industry,  with  production.  Business  means  gain- 
ing money,  not  making  things.  Business  destroys,  when  it 
pays  to  destroy,  as  it  upbuilds  when  it  pays  to  upbuild. 

1  In  earlier  ages,  when  population  pressed  sharply  upon  the  means  of 
subsistence,  inequalities  of  wealth  were  often  the  truest  national  economy. 
Wealth  more  evenly  divided  would  simply  have  meant  more  babies.  The 
opulent  class  served  the  valuable  function  of  depositors  and  protectors 
of  the  social  surplus.  They  were  the  useful  fat  cells  of  the  social  body. 
To-day,  however,  a  nearer  approach  to  an  equality  of  wealth  and  income 
would  undoubtedly  mean  a  vast  increase  in  the  sum  total  of  economic 
satisfactions  of  the  more  advanced  nations. 


:; 


PLUTOCRACY  AND   EFFICIENCY  147 

Whether  profits  are  secured  through  monopoly,  adultera- 
tion, advertised  poisoning,  or  the  making  of  good  bread  and 
good  shoes  at  fair  prices,  the  end  of  business  is  the  same  — 
the  maximum  of  profits.  ^ 

For  the  individual  man,  in  business  against  competitors,    > 
this  goal  of  profits  (within  bounds  of  law  and  decency)  is 
legitimate.     For  a  nation  the  conception  is  self-destructive^  ' 

The  social  program  of  the  plutocracy  is  tainted  by  this 
individualistic  conception.  That  program  is  too  profit- 
cramped,  and  consequently  too  pedantically  restrained,  to 
gain  general  approbation.  The  man  on  the  street,  though 
astounded  at  the  magnitude  of  certain  benefactions,  is 
seldom  with  any  deep  sense  of  gratitude.  He  vaguely  feels 
that  the  social  program  even  of  philanthropists  is  for  the 
most  part  second-hand.  He  suspects  that  it  comes  from  an 
outside  intellectual  and  moral  pressure,  or  even  from  an 
abiding  sense  of  avertible  evils  to  come. 

These  suspicions  are  perhaps  unfounded.  Yet  the 
social  ethics  of  the  plutocracy  sit  somewhat  awkwardly 
upon  the  victors  in  the  great  game  of  American  profit- 
seeking.  It  is  an  ethic  which,  acknowledging  no  evils,  pro- 
ceeds to  cure  them;  which,  finding  the  economic  world 
theoretically  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  proceeds  to  patch  it  up. 
The  plutocrat  does  not  come  by  his  good  intentions  honestly. 
He  is  a  man  who  instinctively  worships  the  status  quo;  who 
instinctively  lauds  the  conditions  of  which  he  is  the  product ; 
who  inevitably  attributes  the  failures  of  others  to  those 
others'  failings.  If  he  becomes  a  philanthropist,  or  a  social 
and  political  reformer,  it  is  not  so  much  by  virtue  of  his 
philosophy  as  because  he  has  a  sense  of  order  and  dislikes 

1  The  plutocracy,  like  the  individualists  before  it,  exalts  the  instinct 
for  gain  as  the  one  redeeming  economic  virtue  of  a  humanity,  otherwise 
immersed  in  slothfulness.  Protestants  against  the  plutocracy  condemn 
this  instinct  as  the  original  irrepressible  economic  sin.  Actually  the  in- 
stinct of  individual  gain  (including  herein  wages)  is  individually  an  end, 
but  socially,  only  a  means. 


148  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

waste.  Moreover,  city  life  and  the  newspaper  bring  home 
to  us  —  and,  through  us,  to  him  —  poverty,  illness,  cruelty 
and  a  festering  wretchedness;  and  to  all  these  things  t 
growing  general  comfort  and  an  increasing  national  wealtt 
have  made  us  —  and  him  —  most  painfully  sensitive.  The 
cramping  of  the  plutocratic  philanthropy,  however,  consist* 
herein,  that  the  huge  benefactions  of  multimillionaires  arc 
seldom  intentionally  and  consciously  directed  towards  th( 
equalization  of  incomes,  the  prevention  of  future  inequali 
ties,  the  democratization  of  government,  or  the  extension  ol 
popular  control  over  industries  now  given  over  to  private 
exploitation.  The  profits  of  the  plutocracy,  even  whei 
directed  to  social  reform,  are  seldom  intentionally  enlistee 
a  war  against  profits. 

The  very  qualities  of  the  plutocracy  have  this  inevitable 
defect,  this  prenatal  taint.  Our  business  magnates,  thougl 
perhaps  the  greatest  industrial  organizers  in  the  world 
in  many  respects  reactionary.  They  demand  free 
to  the  spoils  of  the  continent.  They  claim  the 
privilege  (as  price  of  their  leadership)  of  levying  a  legalizec 
tribute.  By  arbitrarily  identifying  their  interests  wit! 
those  of  the  community  at  large,  they  subtly  exalt  theu 
own  demands  above  those  of  other  social  groups.  The} 
believe  in  docile  labor.  They  favor  business  secrecy 
financial  absolutism,  liberty  of  action  to  the  industrially 
strong.  They  wish,  for  the  sake  of  private  profits,  to  rule 
despotically  in  the  business  field. 

/Because  of  this  inability  to  rise  above  the  conception  oi 
/individual  profits,  the  plutocracy  finds  that  its  own  argu- 
\  ments,  used  so  effectively  against  the  individualist,  are  no\* 
Ndirected  against  its  own  pretensions.     As  the  old  individual- 
ist, so,  in  its  turn,  the  trust  was  necessary,  and  was  tolerated, 
The  pioneer  period  could  not  lead  immediately  into  the 
period  of  democratic  socialization,  because  neither  we  noi 
our  businesses  or   governments  were  adjusted  to  such  a 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  149 

transition.  Our  industry  was  too  detailed,  inchoate,  multi- 
form ;  our  government  was  too  amorphous ;  our  individual- 
ism too  confident  and  dogmatic.  Before  a  democracy  was 
possible,  the  house  must  be  set  in  order,  the  house  indus- 
trial, political,  and  socio-psychological.  The  cleaner  ap- 
pointed for  this  necessary  task  of  preparing  the  house  for 
the  owner's  occupancy  was  our  resplendent,  unpremeditated 
plutocracy. 

The  task  of  cleaning,  however,  is  a  temporary  one,  and 
the  more  efficiently  the  cleaners  work,  the  sooner  they 
may  be  paid  off  and  dismissed.  The  rapidity  with  which 
our  trust  builders,  financiers,  business  engineers,  and  long-\ 
distance  organizers  are  unifying  our  national  businesses 
hastens  their  own  supersession  through  the  creation  of  con- 
ditions which  make  a  still  more  efficient  regime  possible. 
The  more  rapidly  our  plutocracy,  acting  under  the  stimulus 
of  profits,  introduces  the  cooperative  element  into  our  busi- 
nesses, the  sooner  will  the  democracy  be  able  to  adapt  this^ 
cooperative  element  to  the  socialization  of  industry.  The 
function  of  the  plutocracy  is  to  reduce  chaos  to  order.  But 
order  is  the  very  rock  upon  which  democratic  socialization 
is  built.  When  the  plutocracy  shall  have  finished  its  task, 
it  must  take  its  booty  and  go.1 

The  new  democracy  accepts  the  plutocracy's  theory  of 
the  survival  of  the  fittest  civilization.  It  recognizes  that 
the  efficient  utilization  of  our  national  resources  means  the 
wealth,  bread,  life  of  the  people,  and  that  all  political 
aspirations  must  conform  to  this  underlying  economic 
factor.  The  democracy,  however,  instructed  by  its  wants, 
interprets  the  word  utilization  in  a  new  sense.  Where  the 
plutocracy  means  the  greatest  wealth,  the  democracy  means 

1  That  is,  it  must  go  as  a  group  especially  favored  in  an  economic  sense. 
Under  any  practicable  regime  of  industry  there  would  be  an  acute  demand 
for  the  well-recompensed  services  of  men  with  the  trainings,  abilities,  and 
intuitions  of  our  great  trust  builders. 


V 


150  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  widest  range  of  economic  satisfactions.  Where  the 
plutocracy  thinks  of  profits,  the  democracy  thinks  of  recrea- 
tion, leisure,  a  wise  expenditure,  and  a  healthful  toil.  Where 
the  plutocracy  emphasizes  a  saving  in  wages,  the  democracy 
emphasizes  a  saving  in  labor. 

The  democracy  does  not  believe  that  a  nation  is  rich 
because  the  majority  owes  the  minority  money  and  labor. 
The  democracy  does  not  wish  the  nation  to  possess  that 
" wealth"  which  is  merely  the  capitalized  value  of  an 
economic  rent  due  from  the  people  to  monopolists,  but  it 
does  desire  meat,  potatoes,  school  books,  public  parks,  and 
surcease  from  excessive  toil.  The  democracy  interprets 
utilization  as  such  a  production,  distribution,  and  consump- 
tion of  wealth  as  will  give  the  highest  excess  of  economic 
pleasure  over  economic  pain  to  the  largest  number  of  people 
for  the  longest  possible  time.  Upon  this  end  all  the  indus- 
trial, political,  social,  and  ethical  ideals  of  the  democracy 
converge. 

These  two  conceptions  of  efficiency  conflict  in  many' 
problems.  The  plutocracy,  where  it  pays  in  the  long  run, 
will  usually  reduce  hours  of  labor,  let  us  say,  from  twelve 
to  ten  a  day,  as  distinguished  from  the  early  individualist 
or  our  present  parasitic  industries,  which  have  no  time  to 
consider  the  long  run.  The  democracy,  however,  will 
demand  a  still  further  reduction  of  the  working  day,  if  such 
reduction  is  to  the  net  ultimate  advantage  of  the  whole  com- 
munity, and  whether  or  not  it  lessens  production  and  profits.1 

1  At  this  point  a  senile  argument  comes  doddering  to  the  rescue.  Even 
before  it  opens  its  mouth,  you  hear  the  question :  "If  eight  hours,  why  not 
four,  two,  or  one  ?  If  you  leave  the  safe  ground  of  supply  and  demand 
in  regulating  the  length  of  the  working  day,  why  work  over  ten  minutes 
a  day?"  The  obvious  answer  is  that  from  the  social  point  of  view  the 
hours  of  labor  should  be  so  regulated  that  the  final  increment  of  work  should 
not  mean  more  loss  in  fatigue  or  in  abstention  from  recreation  than  it 
means  in  the  pleasure  from  increased  wages  or  output.  It  is  a  subjective 
analysis,  more  difficult  to  explain  than  to  make,  as  are  many  of  our  every- 
day determinations. 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  151 

Similarly  the  question  of  the  " speeding  up"  of  labor  versus 
the  "  restriction  of  output,"  the  problems  of  unrestricted 
versus  restricted  child  labor  often  (though  not  always) 
involve  the  choice  between  an  individualistic  utilization  in 
terms  of  profits  or  even  of  production  and  a  social  utiliza- 
tion in  terms  of  life.  Many  trade  union  demands  are  to-day 
misunderstood  because  we  are  largely  under  the  dominion 
of  ancient  ideas  identifying  the  best  utilization  of  our  re- 
sources with  a  maximum  of  production  and  profits. 
/  The  conflict  between  the  plutocracy  and  the  democracy 
/  thus  becomes  a  contest  between  rival  methods,  purposes,  and 
^  beneficiaries  of  the  exploitation  of  the  continent.  It  is  not, 
\and  never  has  been  (and  probably  no  social  conflict  ever 
was),  a  mere  contest  between  bad  men  and  good  men.  To 
our  trust  builders  are  sometimes  applied  such  indecent  epithets 
as  " vampires"  and  " bloodsuckers,"  while  their  victims,  the 
common  people,  are  represented  as  meek  and  humble  citi- 
zens, who  would  rather  suffer  injury  than  inflict  it.  This 
ethical  contrast,  so  solacing  to  honest  poverty,  does  not, 
however,  quite  square  with  the  facts.  In  actual  life,  affa- 
bility, honesty,  courage,  and  other  virtues  have  a  way  of 
dividing  themselves  rather  equally  between  men  who  favor 
and  men  who  oppose  social  progress.  Rogues  are  often 
exemplars  of  all  the  gentle  domestic  virtues.  Our  tran- 
scendent and  incomprehensible  money-makers,  after  break- 
ing laws  faster  and  more  scientifically  than  legislators  make 
them,  decline  into  philanthropy  and  scatter  their  vertigi- 
nous fortunes  to  libraries  and  hospitals,  while  an  imitating 
horde  of  lesser  magnates  —  mere  inconspicuous  millionaires 
—  unostentatiously  give  time  and  money  to  correct  the 
minor  iniquities  of  our  industrial  life.  Our  plutocrats  are 
not  wicked  men. 

What   is   perhaps   more   significant,    they   are   obsolete. ' 
The  very  qualities  which  fitted  our  plutocracy  for  estab- 
lishing   efficiency    unfit  it  for  establishing  a  democracy, 


152  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

which,  as  far  as  the  people  are  concerned,  is  but  a  higher 
form  of  efficiency.  The  democracy  is  learning  that  the 
elimination  of  waste  means  the  elimination  as  well  of  the 
present-day  trust.  Just  as  the  trust  builder  taught  the  old 
pioneer  that,  without  a  change  in  industrial  organization, 
the  conquered  wilderness  would  relapse  into  a  social  wilder- 
ness, so  our  new  democrats  are  teaching  that,  without  a 
f  readjustment  in  the  distribution  and  consumption  of  wealth, 

/     improvements  in  production  will  be  of  no  permanent  ad- 
/  vantage.    The  mere  accumulation  of  wealth  will  be  but  an 

*  /aggravation  of  poverty. 

All  of  which  the  plutocracy  does  not  understand.  It  does 
not  in  truth  comprehend  this  fascinating  industrial  world, 
which  in  a  certain  sense  is  its  own  creation.  It  cannot  con\ 
ceive  how  a  society  growing  in  wealth  can  simultaneously 
grow  in  discontent,  and  it  regards  all  subterranean  rancor 
as  a  lack  of  gratitude.  The  plutocracy  listens  astounded 
to  men  who  once  spoke  of  patriotism  and  national  conscious- 
ness, but  now  speak  of  socialization  and  class  consciousness, 
and  it  views  with  bewilderment  the  precedence  which  Labor 
Day  parades  and  speeches  seem  to  be  taking  over  Fourth 
of  July  parades  and  speeches.  The  plutocracy  does  not 
understand  all  this  "sectionalism,"  "demagoguery,"  and 
"incitement  to  class  hatred." 

The  plutocracy  would  like  to  issue  an  injunction,  not  only 
against  the  new  spirit,  but  equally  against  the  new  and  un- 
consecrated  uses  attached  to  the  plutocracy's  English.  It 
had  always  interpreted  the  phrase  "economic  freedom" 
in  the  good,  old,  simple,  juridical  sense,  according  to  which 
a  poor  Roumanian,  consumptive  widow,  half-supporting 
her  children  by  sewing,  is  a  "free  agent"  enjoying  "economic 
freedom,"  as  is  also  the  recently  landed  Italian  day  laborer, 
party  of  the  first  part,  who  enters  into  a  wage  agreement 
(through  the  padrone)  with  the  party  of  the  second  part, 
a   trans-continental   railroad   corporation.     The    new   de- 


PLUTOCRACY  AND  EFFICIENCY  153 

mocracy  is  putting  a  new  meaning  into  the  old  phrase,  and 
is  insisting  on  a  real,  economic  (as  well  as  a  legal)  equality 
between  bargainers;  upon  a  real,  economic  (as  well  as  a 
legal)  freedom.  All  of  which  is  revolutionary,  and,  what  is 
worse,  confusing.  The  plutocracy,  which  is  far  from  subtle 
when  removed  from  the  countinghouse,  does  not  understand. 

When  the  plutocracy  is  attacked,  as  it  often  is,  by  the 
uncompromising  class-conscious  socialist,  it  answers  his  un- 
answerable attacks  by  equally  unanswerable  attacks  upon 
the  socialist.  The  trust  builder,  not  knowing  how  to  reply, 
not  understanding  even  the  terminology  of  his  opponent, 
leaves  his  own  position  defenseless  and  invades  and  lays 
waste  the  enemy's  country.  To  the  socialist's  arguments 
that  the  plutocratic  (and  capitalistic)  system  creates  and 
preserves  poverty,  the  trust  builder  answers  nothing.  But 
he  does  prove,  or  believes  that  he  proves,  that  the  coopera- 
tive commonwealth  cannot  be  created  by  any  forces  now 
existing  in  society,  that  it  could  not  be  maintained  without 
the  desire  for  profits,  and  that,  if  established,  it  would  dis- 
appoint its  creators  and  would  founder  on  the  rock  of  a 
residual  egotism.  To  the  argument  that  plutocratic  rule 
is  no  longer  possible,  the  trust  builder  replies  that  the  co- 
operative commonwealth  will  never  be  possible.  Thus  each 
contestant,  without  meeting  the  other,  gains  over  him  a 
splendid  logical  victory. 

To  the  proponent  of  a  new,  socialized,  and  plenary  de- 
mocracy, the  plutocracy  opposes  a  similar  argument.  Against 
such  a  democracy  he  pleads  as  a  devil's  advocate.  He 
describes  the  Demos  as  an  ignorant,  self-satisfied,  rapa- 
cious, and  violent  brute ;  as  a  brute  which  must  be  caged. 
In  his  eyes  "the  people"  is  a  Thing  far  lower  than  its  con- 
stituent individuals ;  it  is  a  mob,  with  a  mob's  insolence  and 
a  mob's  cowardice.  The  plutocrat  recalls  many  foibles, 
errors,  and  crimes  of  a  stumbling,  half-seeing  democracy. 
He  believes  that  the  masses  are  always  wrong ;  that  all  prog- 


154  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ress  comes  from  the  few.     Democracy,  he  asserts,  will  let 
loose  the  original,  ineradicable  perversity  of  the  mass.     The 
human  herd,  set  free  from  the  leash  of  subordination,  pos- 
sessed with  the  mad,  evil  spirit  of  self-rule,  will  run  violently 
down  a  steep  place  into  the  sea,  and  will  perish  in  the  waters. 
Against  such  democrats,  the  plutocracy  opposes  what  it 
claims  are  the  best  traditions  of  Americanism.     The  plu- 
tocracy honestly  regards  itself  as  merely  the  old  American 
.individualist,  a  trifle  rejuvenesced, — the  individualist  trying 
to  make  an  honest  living  by  developing  the  country.     It 
believes  that  it  is  the  true  representative  of  our  sterling 
American  qualities  of  initiative  and  self-reliance. 
/    In  this  interested  attachment  to  old  ideals,  as  in  the  very 
|  humbleness  of  its  merely  pecuniary  ambitions,  lie  the  strength 

\   of  the  plutocracy's  appeal  to  public  opinion  and  the  menace 
that  it  may  corrode  our  national  morals,  or  at  least  tend  to 

^maintain  them  on  a  low  level.  What  is  so  transcendently 
perilous  in  our  present  conditions  of  industrial  success  and 
failure  is  not  our  inequality  of  wealth  with  its  evil  effect  upon 
the  consumption  of  the  nation's  goods,  nor  even  the  subtle 
corruption  of  our  politics  —  although  both  are  evil  —  but 
rather  the  echo  of  the  rich  spoiler's  ambition  in  the  soul  of 
the  average  men.  Our  real  plutocrats  are  not  all  rich. 
Doubtless,  in  the  army  of  King  Charles,  the  stableboys, 
most  ardent  despisers  of  equality,  were  plus  royalistes  que  le 
Roi.  To-day  in  America,  just  as  the  standard  of  democracy 
is  borne  aloft  by  some  men  of  fortune,  so,  on  the  other  hand, 
wealthy  plutocrats  are  backed  up  by  millions  of  like-minded 
poor  men,  penniless  plutocrats,  dream-millionaires.  The  men 
of  great  fortunes  give  resplendency  to  the  ideals  which  unite 

\  rich  and  poor  fortune  seekers. 

Secure  in  the  adherence  of  its  humble  millions  of  imitators 
and  admirers,  the  plutocracy  looks  forward  to  many  genera- 
tions of  peaceful  control  of  the  labor,  votes,  and  thoughts  of 
the  American  people.     It  relies  upon  its  enormous  wealth, 


PLUTOCRACY  AND   EFFICIENCY  155 

and  its  strong  position  in  industry,  politics,  and  the  machines 
of  public  expression.  It  believes  that  it  still  possesses  a  mis- 
sion, and  it  cannot  conceive  of  the  possibility  of  any  alter- 
native social  organization.  The  plutocracy  hopes,  by  a  self- 
directed  curbing  of  its  own  worst  impulses,  to  live  many  , 
years  in  uncontested  rule  of  the  American  nation.  I 

But  this  very  program,  which  is  the  final  appeal  of  the 
plutocracy  for  the  suffrages  of  the  people,  is  but  the  dwarfed 
expression  of  the  new  spirit ;  is  but  the  shadow,  cast  before, 
of  the  coming  democracy.  When  the  plutocracy  could  not 
understand  the  minds  or  interpret  the  motives  of  the  in- 
creasing numbers  of  earnest  men  opposed  to  it,  it  should 
have  begun  to  suspect  that,  despite  its  resplendency,  some- 
thing was  already  radically  wrong  with  it.  The  plutocracy, 
which  denies  the  possibility  of  a  democratic  revolt,  is  making 
such  a  revolt  inevitable.  It  is  furnishing  a  common  point  of 
attack  to  diverse  assailants.  In  opposition  to  the  plutocracy, 
insurgent  Americans  are  developing  vague,  large  programs, 
in  the  execution  of  which  the  elimination  of  the  plutocracy 
is  but  a  first  step.  Just  as  the  demand  for  an  American 
nation  was  born,  not  of  a  common  positive  ideal,  but  of  a 
concerted  opposition  to  petty  British  aggressions;  just  as 
"the  old  nationalism "  found  its  highest  expression  in  op- 
position to  an  ethically  dead  slavery,  —  so  in  a  common  an- 
tagonism to  a  towering,  menacing  plutocracy,  men  imbued 
with  new  ideals  and  new  hopes  are  uniting  to  establish  in 
America  a  full,  free,  socialized  democracy. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   NEW   SOCIAL   SPIRIT 

THERE  are  men  who  believe  that  the  plutocracy  is 
undying,  like  one  of  its  favorite  999-years'  leases. 
They  believe  that,  as  the  years  pass,  the  noise  and  fury  of 
the  battle  against  the  trusts  will  die  down ;  the  chants  of 
victory  will  be  sung ;  the  returning  heroes  will  be  crowned, 
while  quietly  the  unscathed  trusts  will  emerge  from  the 
conflict.  Thereafter  a  wiser  race  of  business  princes  will 
rule  America  through  vassals,  retainers,  and  mercenaries, 
while  granting  bread  and  circuses  to  a  light-hearted  populace. 
Through  speciously  democratic  constitutions  these  rulers 
will  fasten  their  hold  upon  a  hunger-driven  or  pleasure- 
lured  people.  The  Declaration  of  Independence  will  end 
in  government  by  check  book.  Democracy  will  become  the 
equality  of  underlings,  dominated  by  pomp-shunning  dic- 
tators. 

A  completely  triumphant  plutocracy  would  be  no  new 
thing  under  the  sun.  In  many  ages  we  have  had  a  rule  of 
the  wealthy,  a  gilding  of  the  state  and  of  the  laws.  Plutoc- 
racies have  shown  vigor,  skill,  and  martial  quality. 

There  is  reason,  however,  to  believe  that  the  trend  in 
America  is  not  towards  a  perpetuation  of  plutocratic  rule 
nor  towards  a  subversion  of  democratic  sentiment,  which 
would  be  its  intellectual  accompaniment.  We  Americans, 
(it  is  true,  have  surrendered  some  of  our  former  aggressive 
egalitarianism.  We  have  borrowed  some  of  the  class  dis- 
tinctions of  Europe,  and  have  evolved  some  upon  our  own 
account.  The  "hired  girl"  is  now  the  servant,  sitting  at 
the  servant's  table ;  the  tradesman  enters  by  the  tradesman's 

156 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  157 

door;  policemen,  firemen,  conductors,  letter  carriers,  " sub- 
mit" to  uniforms;1  and  an  increasing  number  of  persons 
accept  the  subordinate  status  involved  in  the  receipt  of 
tips  and  gratuities.  But  these  facts,  while  they  undoubtedly 
show  stratification  and  the  beginnings  of  caste,  do  not  con- 
stitute an  argument  that  we  are  forever  to  be  ruled  by  a 
sovereign  wealthy  class.  The  plutocracy  is  still  far  from 
the  attainment  of  a  separate  legal  status  or  from  a  recognized 
economic  sovereignty.  As  it  grows  in  power,  opposing 
forces  grow  equally.  The  plutocracy  is  not  always  on  the 
offensive.  Nor  is  its  defense  impervious.  It  has  no  glamour, 
no  traditions,  no  superabundance  of  intelligence.  It  does 
not  even  possess  a  monopoly  of  the  community's  wealth. 
Its  pretensions,  to  avail,  must  combat  the  growing  national 
consciousness  and  the  new  skeptical  knowledge  of  the 
multitude. 

There  is  a  variant  to  the  foregoing  theory  of  a  perpetual 
plutocracy.  Some  men  believe  that  an  eventual  democracy 
—  as  much  as  is  good  for  us  —  will  come  as  a  free  gift  from 
omnipotent  .millionaires,  like  the  charter  of  a  city  granted 
by  grace  of  an  absolute  monarch.  The  plutocracy  will  act 
as  the  faithful  steward  of  our  liberties.  The  golden  calf, 
seeing  a  new  light,  will  descend  from  his  pedestal  and  mingle 
with  the  baser  herd.  This  theory  is  idyllic.  Unfortunately, 
however,  the  full  program  of  the  plutocracy,  while  it  may 
carry  us  far  along  the  line  of  social  reform,  will  not  bring 
us  to  democracy.  Moreover,  were  we  to  become  the  sudden 
peaceful  legatees  of  abdicating  industrial  despots,  we  should 
not  know  what  to  do  with  our  easy  heritage.2 


1  It  is  highly  significant  of  the  fierce  egalitarianism  of  our  grandfathers 
that  the  wearing  of  a  uniform,  even  by  a  railroad  conductor,  was  hotly 
repelled  as  unworthy  of  a  free-born  American. 

2  We  have  very  few  precedents  of  any  real  abdication  of  power  by  social 
groups  or  classes.  In  1789  the  French  nobles,  and  in  1911  the  British 
peers,  made  more  or  less  graceful  relinquishment  of  pretensions,  but  in 


V. 


k 


158  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

What  we  dimly  see  to-day  is  not  the  promise  of  a  per- 
manent plutocracy,  nor  democratic  institutions  graciously 
conceded  by  repentant  money  lords,  but  the  native  growth 
of  a  democratic  spirit.  At  the  moment  when  maturing' 
forces  culminate  in  the  florescence  of  our  powerful  plutocracy, 
when  the  cleavage  between  Americans  at  the  top  and  Ameri- 
cans at  the  bottom  appears  deepest,  when  millions  seem 
doomed  to  an  ambitionless,  ignoble,  precarious  existence  in 
a  preempted  land,  the  newjjocial  democracy  is  born. 

Our  hope  of  this  democracy  does  not  depend  upon  the 
chance  of  a  sudden,  causeless  turn  of  the  wheel.  The  motor 
reactions  of  society,  like  those  of  individuals,  proceed  only 
from  prior  accumulations  of  nervous  energy.  If  we  are  now 
to  move  towards  democracy,  it  is  because  we  are  already 
moving,  or  preparing  to  move,  in  that  direction.  Our 
conscious  social  actions  are  but  a  fulfillment,  a  sanction, 
an  epilogue;  the  unconscious  social  strivings  precede  and 
prepare. 

That  this  democratic  evolution  is  already  preparing  is 
overlooked  by  him  who  runs.  The  development  is  too  multi- 
form and  bewildering,  and  we  are  too  near.  If  we  fix  our 
gaze  at  one  point  in  progress,  we  conclude  that  results  are 
small.  If,  however,  we  look  over  the  field  and  note  progress 
in  a  succession  of  social  efforts,  we  are  amazed  at  our  advance. 
A  democratic  reform  is  instituted  in  one  of  our  States  with 
a  blazon  of  trumpets.  Thereafter  we  hear  rumors  of  its 
working  ill  or  well.  Then  silence.  A  dozen  years  later, 
we  are  surprised  to  learn  that  half  the  States  have  adopted 
the  new  institution,  and  soon  we  forget  the  evil  conditions 
which  preceded,  and  think  of  the  reform  no  longer  as  an 
improvement,  but  as  a  thing  upon  which  we  are  absurdly 
slow  to  improve. 

It  requires  a  historical  perspective  to  make  any  corn- 
each  case  the  action  was  induced  by  the  expectant  attitude  of  a  none  too 
patient  heir. 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  159 

parison  of  present  and  past.  "The  heirs  of  all  the  ages" 
are  spoilt  children,  valuing  only  their  very  newest  toys.  An 
infant  born  a  few  generations  ago  might  have  been  elated 
over  the  steam  engine;  a  child  born  to-day  will  find  the 
telephone,  automobile,  and  X-ray  commonplaces.  He  will 
no  more  think  of  aviation  as  progress  than  we  regard  plow- 
ing and  arithmetic  as  valuable  social  acquisitions. 

So  great  is  the  insistence  of  the  immediate,  that  we  find 
it  well-nigh  impossible  to  picture  the  state  of,  let  us  say,  the 
workingman  of  a  century  ago  —  of  the  indentured  servant, 
of  the  slave,  of  the  man  who  sailed  before  the  mast  and  was 
beaten,  starved,  and  " hazed,"  of  the  workman  arrested  for 
debt,  of  the  child  without  chance  of  education.  A  sunlit 
haze  softens  the  outlines  of  the  past,  and  inclines  us  to  de- 
scribe present  evil  conditions  in  words  which  in  earlier  times 
had  a  harsher  significance.  We  sometimes  apply  to  mod*- 
ern  labor  conditions  the  word  " slavery,"  without  realizing 
how  inapposite  is  a  comparison  of  our  present  conditions 
with  the  auction  block,  the  forcible  separation  of  families, 
the  willful  maiming  of  slaves,  the  prohibition  of  education, 
and  other  features  of  the  Southern  labor  system  of  1860 1 

Similarly,  because  we  are  so  hypnotized  by  the  glitter  of  T\ 
our  plutocracy,  we  fail  to  see  the  countervailing  develop- 
ments of  the  last  twenty  years  in  political,  industrial,  and   J 
social  life.     We  overlook  an  evolution  which  in  many  States/ 
and  cities  has  already  given  a  larger  popular  control  ovetf 
government,  which  in  one  industry  after  another  has  sub- 
jected business  to  governmental  supervision.     We  do  no ; 
trace  the  new  democratic  movement  in  its  innumerable 
ramifications;   in  ordinances,  laws,  judicial  decisions,  grou 
actions,  and  individual  labors.     And  yet,  without  knowin 
in  detail  this  vast,  multiform  movement,  we  cannot  escap 
its  impelling  spirit. 

That  spirit  is  still  inchoate  and  speaks  with  many  voices. 
To  many  men  it  means  many  things.    It  inspires  the  striker, 


160  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

who  fights  for  "  principles  "  even  when  the  bread-and-butter 
balance  is  against  him.  It  may  also  inspire  an  opposing 
employer,  who,  with  more  rudimentary  a  social  sense,  dreams 
of  good  houses,  clean  bath  towels,  and  other  welfare  work 
for  his  employees.  It  inspires  the  city  reformer  fighting  for 
"a  city  for  the  people";  the  political  insurgent  rebelling 
against  laming  political  traditions;  the  muckraker  pain- 
fully hunting  for  "graft";  the  inventor,  engineer,  bacteri- 
ologist, planning  to  remove  physical  barriers  which  impede 
a  driven  humanity.  The  new  spirit  is  the  language  of  social 
reformers,  who,  from  being  almsgivers  and  tract  distributors, 
are  becoming  merciless,  slow-speaking  critics  of  social  abuses. 
It  inspires  the  philanthropic  multimillionaire,  who  founds 
hospitals,  libraries,  universities,  and  research  laboratories, 
as  it  inspires  the  revolutionary,  who  wishes  to  end  both 
philanthropy  and  millionaires  by  reconstituting  society  on 
a  basis  of  justice.  The  new  message  is  heard  in  schools, 
churches,  trade-unions,  political  meetings,  social  gatherings. 
One  hears  its  echoes  in  the  Pullman  coach,  the  street  car,  on 
the  "bleachers"  at  the  baseball  game. 

The  new  spirit  is  not  all  new.  Before  this  we  have  known 
these  types,  or,  at  least,  their  prototypes.  But  what  has 
been  small  has  grown  great,  and  what  has  been  still  has  be- 
come loud.  There  has  been  a  change  in  emphasis,  which 
makes  the  new  spirit  a  something  different  from  the  crass, 
state-blind  individualism  of  yesterday. 
[(The  new  spirit  is  social.  Its  base  is  broad.  It  involves 
I  common  action  and  a  common  lot.  It  emphasizes  social 
I  rather  than  private  ethics,  social  rather  than  individual 
responsibility. 

This  new  spirit,  which  is  marked  by  a  social  unrest,  a 

fnew  altruism,  a  changed  patriotism,  an  uncomfortable  sense 
of  social  guilt,  was  not  born  of  any  sudden  enthusiasm  or 
quickening  revelation.  It  grew  slowly  in  the  dark  places 
of  men's  minds  out  of  the  new  conditions.    The  old  indi- 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  161 

vidualism  —  carried  to  its  logical  sequence  —  would  have 
meant  impotence  and  social  bankruptcy.  Individualism 
struck  its  frontier  when  the  pioneer  struck  his,  and  society, 
falling  back  upon  itself,  found  itself.  New  problems  arose, 
requiring  for  their  solution  slight  amendments  of  our  former 
canons  of  judgment  and  modes  of  action.  In  many  spheres 
of  economic  life  the  individual  began  to  find  more  profit 
in  his  undivided  share  of  the  common  lot  than  in  his  chance 
of  individual  gain.  On  this  foundation  of  an  individual  in- 
terest in  the  common  lot,  the  new  social  spirit  was  laid. 
This  egoistic  interest,  however,  was  shared  by  so  many  inter- 
dependent millions,  that  men  passed  insensibly  from  an 
ideal  of  reckless  individual  gaining  to  a  new  ideal,  which 
urged  the  conservation  and  thrifty  utilization  of  the  patri- 
mony of  all  in  the  interest  of  all. 

In  obedience  to  this  new  spirit  we  are  slowly  changing  our 
perception  and  evaluation  of  the  goods  of  life.  We  are 
freeing  ourselves  from  the  unique  standard  of  pecuniary  pre- 
eminence and  are  substituting  new  standards  of  excellence. 
We  are  ceasing  solely  to  adore  successful  greed,  and  are  evolv- 
ing a  tentative  theory  of  the  trusteeship  of  wealth.  We  are 
emphasizing  the  overlordship  of  the  public  over  property 
and  rights  formerly  held  to  be  private.  A  new  insistence  is 
laid  upon  human  life,  upon  human  happiness.  What  is 
attainable  by  the  majority  —  life,  health,  leisure,  a  share  in 
our  natural  resources,  a  dignified  existence  in  society  —  is 
contended  for  by  the  majority  against  the  opposition  of  men,- 
who  hold  exorbitant  claims  upon  the  continent.  The  inner 
soul  of  our  new  democracy  is  not  the  unalienable  rights, 
negatively  and  individualistically  interpreted,  but  those  same( 
rights,  "life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness,"  extende( 
and  given  a  social  interpretation. 

It  is  this  social  interpretation  of  rights  which  characterizes 
the  democracy  coming  into  being,  and  makes  it  different  in 
kind  from  the  so-called  individualistic  democracy  of  Jeffer- 


162  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

son  and  Jackson.  It  is  this  social  concept  which  is  the  com-  \ 
mon  feature  of  many  widely  divergent  democratic  policies./ 
The  close  of  the  merely  expansive  period  of  America  showda 
that  an  individualistic  democracy  must  end  in  its  own  nega- 
tion, the  subjection  of  the  individual  to  an  economically 
privileged  class  of  rich  men.  The  political  weapons  of  our 
forefathers  might  avail  against  political  despotism,  but  were 
farcically  useless  against  economic  aggression.  The  right 
of  habeas  corpus,  the  right  to  bear  arms,  the  rights  of  free 
speech  and  free  press  could  not  secure  a  job  to  the  gray- 
haired  citizen,  could  not  protect  him  against  low  wages  or 
high  prices,  could  not  save  him  from  a  jail  sentence  for  the 
crime  of  having  no  visible  means  of  support.  The  force  of 
our  individualistic  democracy  might  suffice  to  supplant  one 
\  economic  despot  by  another,  but  it  could  not  prevent  eco- 
nomic despotism. 

To-day  no  democracy  is  possible  in  America  except  a 
socialized  democracy,  which  conceives  of  society  as  a  whole 
and  not  as  a  more  or  less  adventitious  assemblage  of  myriads 
of  individuals.  The  old  individualistic  system  pictured  the 
individual  freely  bargaining  with  the  state,  not  only  in  a 
mythical  social  contract,  but  in  the  everyday  affairs  of  taxa- 
tion and  governmental  expenditure.  For  so  much  protection 
the  individual  would  pay  the  state  so  much  taxes.  "The 
subjects  of  every  State/'  said  the  great  economist  Adam 
Smith,  "ought  to  contribute  to  the  support  of  the  Govern- 
ment as  nearly  as  possible  in  proportion  to  their  respective 
abilities;  that  is,  in  proportion  to  the  revenue  which  they 
respectively  enjoy  under  the  protection  of  the  State.  The 
expense  of  government  to  the  individuals  of  a  great  nation 
is  like  the  expense  of  management  to  the  joint  tenants  of 
a  great  estate,  who  are  all  obliged  to  contribute  in  proportion 
to  their  respective  interests  in  the  estate."  l 

1  "Wealth  of  Nations,"  Book  V,  Chap.  2.  From  an  individualistic 
point  of  view,  no  theory  could  be  juster.     Our  federal  taxation  to-day, 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  163 

The  individualistic  point  of  view  halts  social  development 
at  every  point.  Why  should  the  childless  man  pay  in  taxes 
for  the  education  of  other  people's  children?  Why  should 
the  rich  and  innocent  pay  for  better  almshouses  and  better 
prisons  for  the  poor  and  guilty  ?  Why  should  those  who  do 
not  use  the  public  parks  and  public  playgrounds  pay  for 
them  in  taxes?  To  the  individualist  taxation  above  what 
is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  individual's  welfare  is  an 
aggression  upon  his  rights  and  a  circumscription  of  his 
powers.  / 

All  the  inspiring  texts  of  democracy  fall  into  nonsense  or 
worse  when  given  a  strict  individualistic  interpretation. 
" Government  should  rest  upon  the  consent  of  the  governed" 
is  a  great  political  truth,  if  by  "the  governed"  is  meant  the 
whole  people,  or  an  effective  majority  of  the  people ;  but 
if  each  individual  governed  retains  the  right  at  all  times  to 
withhold  his  consent,  government  and  social  union  itself 
become  impossible.  So,  too,  the  phrase  "taxation  without 
representation  is  tyranny,"  if  interpreted  strictly  in  an  in- 
dividualistic sense,  leads  to  the  theory  that  government 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  property  owners,  that  they  who 
pay  the  piper  (in  taxes)  should  set  the  tune,  that  they  who  are 
without  "a  stake  in  the  country"  should  not  participate,  or 
at  least  not  equally,  in  a  government  designed  to  raise  money 
and  to  expend  it. 

In  the  socialized  democracy  towards  which  we  are  moving, 
all  these  conceptions  will  fall  to  the  ground.  It  will  be  sought 
to  make  taxes  conform  more  or  less  to  the  ability  of  each  to 

**  pay ;  but  the  engine  of  taxation,  like  all  other  social  engines, 
will  be  used  to  accomplish  great  social  ends,  among  which 

i    will  be  the  more  equal  distribution  of  wealth  and  income. 
The  state  will  tax  to  improve  education,  health,  recreation, 

which  falls  with  especial  severity  upon  people  of  small  and  moderate 
means,  is  immeasurably  below  the  standard  set  by  Adam  Smith  five  gen- 
erations ago. 


i  164  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

communication,  "to  provide  for  the  common  defense,  and 
promote  the  general  welfare,"  and  from  these  taxes  no  social 
group  will  be  immune  because  it  fails  to  benefit  in  proportion 
to  cost.  The  government  of  the  nation,  in  the  hands  of  the 
people,  will  establish  its  unquestioned  sovereignty  over  the 
industry  of  the  nation,  so  largely  in  the  hands  of  individuals. 
The  political  liberties  of  the  people  will  be  supplemented 
by  other  provisions  which  will  safeguard  their  industrial 
liberties. 

/^To-day  the  chief  restrictions  upon  liberty  are  economic, 
not  legal,  and  the  chief  prerogatives  desired  are  economic,  not 
political.  It  is  a  curious,  but  not  inexplicable,  development, 
moreover,  that  our  constitutional  provisions,  safeguarding 
our  political  liberties,  are  often  used  to  deprive  us  of  economic 
liberties.  The  constitutional  provision  that  "no  one  shall  be 
deprived  of  life,  liberty,  or  property  without  due  process  of 
law"  has  seldom  prevented  an  Alabama  Negro  from  illegally 
being  sent  to  the  chain  gang,  but  it  has  often  prevented  the 
people  of  a  State  from  securing  relief  from  great  interstate 
corporations.  The  restraints  upon  the  liberty  of  the  poor 
are  to-day  economic.  A  law  forbidding  a  woman  to  work 
in  the  textile  mills  at  night  is  a  law  increasing  rather  than 
restricting  her  liberty,  simply  because  it  takes  from  the  em- 
ployer his  former  right  to  compel  her  through  sheer  economic 
pressure  to  work  at  night  when  she  would  prefer  to  work 
by  day.  So  a  law  against  adulteration  of  food  products  in- 
creases the  economic  liberty  of  food  purchasers,  as  a  tenement 
house  law  increases  the  liberty  of  tenement  dwellers. 

In  two  respects,  the  democracy  towards  which  we  are 
striving  differs  from  that  of  to-day.  Firstly,  the  democracy 
of  to-morrow,  being  a  real  and  not  a  merely  formal  democracy, 
does  not  content  itself  with  the  mere  right  to  vote,  with 
political  immunities,  and  generalizations  about  the  rights 
of  men.  Secondly,  it  is  a  plenary,  socialized  democracy, 
emphasizing  social  rather  than  merely  individual  aims,  and 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  165 

carrying  over  its  ideals  from  the  political  into  the  industrial 
and  social  fields. 

Because  of  this  wideness  of  its  aims,  the  new  spirit,  in  a 
curiously  cautious,  conservative  way,  is  profoundly  revolu- 
tionary. The  mind  of  the  people  slowly  awakens  to  the 
realization  of  the  people's  needs ;  the  new  social  spirit 
gradually  undermines  the  crust  of  inherited  and  promul- 
gated ideas ;  the  rising  popular  will  overflows  old  barriers 
and  converts  former  institutions  to  new  uses.  It  is  a  deep- 
lying,  potent,  swelling  movement.  It  is  not  noiseless,  for 
rotten  iron  cracks  with  a  great  sound,  and  clamor  accom- 
panies the  decay  of  profit-yielding  privileges.  It  is  not  un- 
contested, for  men,  threatened  with  the  loss  of  a  tithe  of  their 
pretensions,  sometimes  fight  harder  than  the  wholly  disin- 
herited. It  does  not  proceed  everywhere  at  equal  pace; 
the  movement  is  not  uniform  nor  uninterrupted.  And  yet, 
measured  by  decades,  or  even  by  years,  the  revolution  grows. 

This  revolution  is  comparable  in  extent  and  content  with 
the  Protestant  Revolution  and  with  the  revolts  which  drove 
James  the  Second  and  Louis  the  Sixteenth  from  their  thrones. 
The  social  revolution  of  to-day  is  greater  than  those  earlier 
revolutions,  for,  reaching  further  into  the  consciousness  of 
nations,  it  stirs  more  men  and  stirs  men  more  deeply.  In 
the  Protestant  Revolution,  the  subjects  of  petty  German 
rulers  followed  their  princes  in  successive  bewildering  changes 
of  faith.  In  the  Revolutions  of  1789  and  1830,  the  Paris 
workman  fought  for  the  Paris  manufacturer,  without  know- 
ing why.  To-day,  when  education  is  almost  universal,  the 
revolution  is  in  the  perceived  interest  of  classes  still  lower 
in  the  social  hierarchy.  It  appeals  to  multitudes  who  sweat. 
It  enrolls  grimy,  overworked  democrats,  men  hitherto  be- 
lieved to  lie  outside  the  range  of  social  consciousness. 

I  use  the  word  "revolution,"  despite  its  fringe  of  mis- 
leading suggestion,  because  no  other  word  so  aptly  designates 
the  completeness  of  the  transformation  now  in  process.    A 


166  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

social  revolution,  in  the  sense  here  implied,  is  a  change, 
however  gradual,  peaceful,  and  evolutionary,  which  has  for 
its  cumulative  effect  a  radical  displacement  of  the  center  of 
|  gravity  of  society.     Such  a  revolution  is  the  substitution 
i  of  a  new  for  an  old  social  equilibrium;  a  fundamental  re- 
]  arrangement  of  the  relations  subsisting  between  conflicting 
or  allied  social  groups.     It  is  a  recrystallization  of  society 
on  new  planes.     It  is  a  new  chemical  union  of  constituent 
social  molecules.     A  relatively  more  rapid  growth  of  a  single 
organ  or  of  a  single  function  of  the  social  organism,  a  hyper- 
trophy here,  an  atrophy  there,  may  suffice  to  bring  about 
a  fundamental  social  overturn,  such  as  we  designate  by  the 
word  " revolution." 

This  revolution,  in  the  very  midst  of  which  we  are,  while 
believing  that  we  stand  firm  on  a  firm  earth,  is  a  revolution 
not  of  blood  and  iron,  but  of  votes,  judicial  decisions,  and 
points  of  view.  It  does  not  smell  of  gunpowder  or  the  bodies 
of  slain  men.  It  does  not  involve  anything  sudden,  violent, 
cataclysmic.  Like  other  revolutions,  it  is  simply  a  quicker 
turn  of  the  wheel  in  the  direction  in  which  the  wheel  is  already 
turning.  It  is  a  revolution  at  once  magnificent  and  com- 
monplace. It  is  a  revolution  brought  about  by  and  through 
the  common  run  of  men,  who  abjure  heroics,  who  sleep 
soundly  and  make  merry,  who  "talk"  politics  and  prize- 
fights, who  obey  alarm  clocks,  time-tables,  and  a  thousand 
petty  but  revered  social  conventions.  They  do  not  know 
that  they  are  revolutionists. 

Nor  do  all  these  revolutionists  comprehend  that  they  are 
allies.  One  group  in  the  community  strives  to  end  the 
exploitation  of  child  labor.  Other  groups  seek  to  extend 
and  improve  education,  to  combat  tuberculosis,  to  reform 
housing  conditions,  to  secure  direct  primaries,  to  obtain  the 
referendum,  to  punish  force  and  fraud  at  the  polls,  to 
secure  governmental  inspection  of  foods,  to  regulate  rail- 
road rates,  to  limit  the  issue  of  stocks  and  bonds  of  corpora- 


THE  NEW  SOCIAL  SPIRIT  167 

tions  doing  an  interstate  business,  to  change  the  character 
and  incidence  of  taxation,  to  protect  and  recreate  our  forests, 
to  reserve  and  conserve  our  mines,  to  improve  the  lot  of 
the  farmer,  to  build  up  trade-unions  among  workingmen, 
to  Americanize  incoming  immigrants,  to  humanize  prisons 
and  penal  laws,  to  protect  the  community  against  penury- 
caused  by  old  age,  accident,  sickness,  and  invalidity,  to 
prevent  congestion  in  cities,  to  divert  to  the  public  a  larger 
share  of  the  unearned  increment,  to  accomplish  a  thousand 
other  results  for  the  general  welfare.  Every  day  new 
projects  are  launched  for  political,  industrial,  and  social 
amelioration,  and  below  the  level  of  the  present  lie  the 
greater  projects  of  the  future.  Reform  is  piecemeal  and  yet 
rapid.  It  is  carried  along  divergent  lines  by  people  holding 
separate  interests,  and  yet  it  moves  towards  a  common  end. 
It  combines  into  a  general  movement  toward  a  new  democracy. 

The  world  does  not  change  at  once,  and  a  progressive 
action  excites  reactions,  as  it,  in  turn,  is  incited  by  them. 
There  occur  simultaneously  violent  antidemocratic  revul- 
sions. Industry  seeks  to  obtain  independence  of  the  state ; 
the  popular  control  over  government  is  resisted ;  industrial 
forces  are  allowed  to  work  to  the  debasement  and  im- 
poverishment of  the  citizens. 

These  two  sets  of  forces,  the  democratic  and  the  anti- 
democratic, meet  on  a  million  obscure  battle  grounds 
every  hour,  minute,  and  second.  The  contest  is  so  wide, 
so  uninterrupted,  so  infinitely  split  up  into  big,  little,  and 
microscopic  encounters,  that  no  one  man  can  oversee  the 
field.  It  is  so  multiform  and  so  full  of  apparent  excep- 
tions that  it  is  difficult  to  apply  to  this  movement  any 
large,  consistent  theory. 

Nevertheless  no  visible  social  movement  can  proceed 
without  our  forming  mental  concepts,  which  seek  to  inter- 
pret it.  We  cannot  play  our  full  role  in  such  a  social  move- 
ment without  forming  at  least  a  vague  conception  of  it 


168  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  of  our  relation  to  it.  What  our  interpretation  will  be 
depends  upon  our  education,  occupation,  race,  religion, 
traditions;  upon  the  part  of  the  movement  that  we  see  ; 
upon  the  manner  in  which  it  affects  our  income  and  pre- 
dilections, and  the  income  and  predilections  of  our  rela- 
tives, neighbors,  and  friends.  Our  interpretation  is  a  com- 
bination-personal-group-class interpretation,  for  when  John 
Doe  conceives  of  the  universe  his  conception  always  con- 
tains more  of  John  Doe  than  of  the  universe.  And  group 
interpretations  are  but  blurred,  composite  photographs  of  all 
these  individual  interpretations. 

The  interpretations  of  our  present  democratic  struggle 
and  adjustment,  although  many,  may  be  reduced  in  sub- 
stance to  two,  answering  roughly  to  two  differing  tem- 
peraments and  to  two  differing  positions  in  the  social 
structure.  These  interpretations  may  be  called  the  theory 
of  the  social  rebound  and  the  theory  of  social  expan- 
sion. Or,  expressed  somewhat  differently,  these  interpre- 
tations may  be  called  the  theory  of  progress  through  poverty 
and  the  theory  of  progress  through  prosperity. 

Of  these  theories  the  first  is  the  older  and  the  more 
instinctive.  All  through  history  we  encounter  the  prophecy 
that  worse  evil  must  precede  the  good.  The  cup  of  bitter- 
ness must  first  be  filled.  The  avenger  must  be  hardened 
in  his  resentment.  When  the  victim  and  the  avenger  are 
one,  the  theory  is  that  of  the  crushed  worm.  The  theory 
of  the  social  rebound  presupposes  conflict;  and  conflict 
presupposes  classes,  with  sharply  defined  and  mutually 
antagonistic  interests,  since  if  opponents  do  not  recognize 
themselves  as  opponents  there  can  be  no  war.  The  theory 
of  the  social  rebound  thus  finds  its  clearest  expression  in  the 
doctrine  according  to  which  social  classes  are  engaged  in  a 
bitter  and  inescapable  class  war,  in  which  compromise  and 
conciliation  play  the  smallest  possible  role,  and  in  which  scant 
regard  is  paid  by  either  class  to  traditions  of  social  peace. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DEMOCRACY   AND   THE    CLASS   WAR 

THE  theory  that  no  real  democracy  can  be  attained 
except  through  a  class  war  between  capitalists  and 
wage  earners  has  been  held  in  some  form  by  almost  all,  if  not 
all,  socialist  parties. 

According  to  this  theory,  the  class  war  is  not  a  voluntary 
struggle,  provoked  by  ambitious  leaders,  but  is  an  inevitable 
result  of  "the  economic  development  of  industrial  society." 
That  development,  it  is  claimed,  depresses  the  city  work- 
men, the  small  tradesmen,  and  the  little  agriculturalists 
(peasant  proprietors)  by  producing  "an  increasing  uncer- 
tainty of  existence,  increasing  misery,  oppression,  servitude, 
degradation,  and  exploitation.  Ever  greater  grows  the 
mass  of  the  proletariat,  ever  vaster  the  army  of  the  unem- 
ployed, ever  sharper  the  contrast  between  oppressors  and 
oppressed,  ever  fiercer  that  war  of  classes  between  bourgeoisie 
and  proletariat  which  divides  modern  society  into  two 
hostile  camps,  and  is  the  common  characteristic  of  every 
industrial  country/ ' x 

This  theory  of  a  class  war,  which  is  applied  to  America, 
as  to  other  "lands  governed  by  capitalistic  methods  of  pro- 
duction, "  conceives  the  state  as  a  class-state,  as  an  organ 
and  a  weapon  of  one  economic  class,  and  it  conceives  of 
society  as  merely  a  battle  ground  for  classes,  with  interests 
antagonistic  and  irreconcilable.  It  underestimates  those 
common  interests  of  classes,  those  broad,  unifying  bonds  in 
society  which  inspire  certain  national  ideals  and  race  pur- 

1  See  the  Erfurt  (1891)  Program  of  the  German  Social  Democratic 
party. 


170  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

poses.  It  postulates  the  ultimate  reduction  of  all  class 
antagonisms  to  one  sharp,  inevitable  antagonism  between 
the  owners  of  the  means  of  production  and  the  wage  earners. 

In  its  earliest  form,  in  the  Communist  Manifesto  of 
1848,  the  theory  of  the  class  struggle  involved  something 
of  the  idea  of  a  servile  revolution,  with  the  impulsive  ferocity 
of  such  an  uprising.  The  revolutionary  class  was  to  be  hard- 
ened to  action  by  a  progressive  debasement.  "The  forcible 
overthrow  of  all  existing  social  conditions"  was  to  be  at- 
tained by  the  united  workingmen  of  all  countries  who  had 
1 '  nothing  to  lose  but  their  chains, ' '  and ' '  a  world  to  gain . ' '  "  Let 
the  ruling  classes  tremble  at  a  Communistic  re  volution.' ' 

Not  only  the  reactionary  ruling  classes  of  1848,  but  all 
friends  of  civilization,  might  well  have  trembled  at  the 
prospect  of  such  a  "Communistic  revolution."  "There  is 
a  very  great  danger  at  hand,"  wrote  Rodbertus  in  1850, 
"lest  a  new  barbarism,  this  time  arising  from  the  midst  of 
society  itself,  lay  waste  the  abodes  of  civilization  and  of 
wealth"  ;  and  the  poet  Heine  thought  with  horror  of  "those 
dark  iconoclasts,"  "who  with  horny  hands  would  break  the 
marble  statues  of  beauty."  In  1848  the  workers  of  west- 
ern Europe  had  not  recovered  from  the  shock  of  a  Titanic 
economic  disruption,  which  in  the  course  of  half  a  century 
had  lowered  real  wages,  had  dislocated  the  old  industrial 
system,  had  robbed  the  workman  of  the  protection  of  old 
laws  and  ancient  customs  (without  granting  him  new  pro- 
tection), and  had  thrown  him  defenseless  into  a  new  arena, 
in  which  there  was  no  rule  but  free  competition  and  no 
pity  or  remission  of  fate  to  the  vanquished.  Masses  of  the 
German  workers,  whom  the  Communist  Manifesto  seemed 
especially  to  hold  in  mind,  were  impoverished,  overworked, 
often  actually  starving.  They  did  not  enjoy  the  primary 
rights  of  free  speech,  free  press,  free  movement,  or  com- 
bination. They  had  no  protectors  in  the  futile  German 
courts,  nor  in  the  churches,  Lutheran  and  Catholic.     They 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE   CLASS  WAR 


m 


had  no  allies  in  the  political  parties.  Beaten  down  by  the 
machine  and  the  competition  of  the  English  factory,  the 
German  workman  was  abject.  So  also,  though  to  a  less 
extent,  were  the  English  workers,  who  had  borne  the  first 
brunt  of  machine  production;  and  so,  generally,  were  the 
working  classes  of  all  European  countries.  Men  treated 
savagely  respond  savagely.  Men  denied  the  beauty  of  the 
world  have  small  respect  for  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

It  was  no  accident  that  the  doctrine  of  an  inexorable 
class  war,  motived  by  an  increasing  impoverishment  of  the 
working  classes,  was  born  of  the  repression  and  intellectual 
ferment  of  "the  hungry  forties."  There  seemed  at  that 
time  no  other  way  out.  Stated  then  most  clearly  and 
absolutely  by  Karl  Marx  and  Friedrich  Engels,_men  of 
Titanic  intellectual  stature,  the  theory  imposed  itself,  by 
means  of  successive  modifications,  upon  the  minds  of 
millions  of  men.  Long  after  1848,  when  the  workmen  were 
slowly  achieving  political  and  industrial  democracy,  socialists 
continued  to  write  under  the  impress  of  those  early  bar- 
barous conditions. 

This  socialism,  which  I  shall  call  "absolute  socialism/ \ 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  Utopian  socialism  whMl  pi'ece'de'd  " 
it,  and  from  the  conditional  socialism  into  which  it  seems 
now  to  be  passing,  was  a  dogmatic,  uncompromising,  and 
revolutionary  philosophy.     It  was  a  system  of  absolutes,  of 
right   and   wrong,   of   things   necessary   and   unescapable  ; 
not  of  relatives,  of  more  or  less.     It  was  the  philosophy  of 
wage  earners    who    accepted   what    their    employers    gave 
them,  and  not  of  bargainers,  traders,  savers,  owners.     It 
did    not  strive,  like  trade-unionism,  gradually  to    whittle 
away  the  employer's  power,  gradually  to  weaken  his  po-_^ 
sition,  while  recognizing  it  in  trade  agreements.     Absolute  / 
socialism  claimed  for  the  workingman  the  full  product  of  I 
labor.     Anything  less,  however  little  less,  was  exploitation.- — 

Exploitation,  however,  could  not  be  little.    The  share  of 


172  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

capital  tended  to  absorb  the  whole  product  of  labor  above 
a  despicable  subsistence  wage.  It  was  not  the  employer's 
fault.  However  much  he  might  be  ridiculed  and  hated, 
the  greatest  capitalist  of  them  all  was  recognized  to  be  as 
much  in  the  grip  of  the  inevitable  economic  development 
as  was  the  least  of  his  employees.  Because  of  this  very  / 
inevitableness  there  could  be  no  parleying  between  laboV 
and  capital;  no  joining  of  hands;  no  giving  or  asking  of 
quarter;  no  softening  of  the  conflict;  and  (in  the  early 
logical  days  of  the  doctrine)  no  preliminary  betterment  of 
the  workman's  lot.  For  the  sake  of  his  profits  the  manu- 
facturer must  allow  his  workmen  to  survive.  For  the  over- 
turn of  capitalism  nothing  but  this  survival  was  necessary. 

The  framework  of  this  absolute  socialism  was  the  factory. 
The  new  doctrine  visualized  the  sharp  conflict  of  interest 
within  the  factory  between  manufacturer  and  workman. 
It  was  impersonal,  necessary.  It  was  a  philosophy  of  tool 
users,  who  understood  and  obeyed  physical  impersonal 
forces.  It  taught  that  social  evolution  was  as  natural  and 
inevitable  as  the  expansion  of  steam;  as  irresistible  as  the 
passage  of  hardened  steel  through  a  yielding  metal. 

Since  private  ownership  of  the  means  of  production  led 
automatically  to  "  increasing  misery,  oppression,  servitude, 
degradation,  and  exploitation,"  it  followed,  even  without 
other  assumptions,  that  private  property  must  be  expro- 
priated and  converted  into  public  property.  Such  a  philos- 
ophy of  wholesale  expropriation  would,  it  was  foreseen, 
antagonize  all  property  owners,  including  tradesmen  and 
farmers  or  peasants.  But,  it  was  assumed,  the  automatic 
progress  of  industry  would  expropriate  these  "  rapidly  sink- 
ing middle  classes,"  who  would  then  instinctively  join 
hands   with   other   proletarians.     Finally   the   proletariat 1 

1  Engels  defines  the  proletariat  as  "the  class  of  modern  wage  laborers 
who,  having  no  means  of  production  of  their  own,  are  reduced  to  selling 
their  labor-power  in  order  to  live." 


) 

DEMOCRACY  AND  THE   CLASS  WAR  173 

. .  '** 
would  come  to  represent  practically  all  society,  and  would 
be  aligned  against  a  "comparatively  small  number  of  capital- 
ists and  great  landowners."  When  that  time  came,  the 
capitalistic  system  with  all  its  exploitations  and  disharmonies 
would  cease,  and  a  new  era  would  be  born,  in  which  eco- 
nomic, political,  and  social  organization  would  be  based  on 
the  common  ownership  of  the  means  of  production,  and 
economic  justice  and  human  dignity  would  be  attained. 

The  unifying  value  of  such  a  philosophy  and  its  strong 
emotional  appeal  to  factory  populations  in  the  grip  of  evil 
conditions  enormously  aided  conviction,  and  the  doctrine 
soon  became  a  cult  and  almost  a  religion. ,  For,  buttressed 
though  it  was  by  reasonings  from  science,  absolute  socialism 
remained  in  its  appeal  essentially  religious.  It  taught  the 
vicarious  atonement  of  all  our  economic  sins  by  one  class 
which  bears  the  cross.  It  foretold  the  advent  of  universal 
peace,  and  the  end  of  poverty,  hunger,  vice,  crime,  and 
bitterness.  It  proclaimed  a  heaven  on  earth  as  opposed 
to  a  present  hell.  It  presented  to  believers  a  choice  as 
absolute  as  that  between  good  and  evil,  thus  saving  them 
the  intolerable  travail  of  an  appraisal  of  reforms  and  half 
measures.  It  shielded  the  future  heaven  from  the  gaze  of 
the  more  skeptical  devotees,  assuring  them  that  the  in- 
evitable social  revolution  would  shape  society  Jn  ways  un- 
dreamed of  —  but  with  a  visage  benevolent.  It  was  not  a 
quietistic  religion;  it  did  not  teach  submission,  but  faith 
and  works,  solidarity  and  revolt.  It  was  a  religion,  inspir- 
ing and  solacing,  a  religion  which  enlisted  the  affections  of 
millions,  and  was  contended  for  fanatically  and  literally, 
and  not  without  a  measure  of  theological  odium. 

To-day  men  who  were  formerly  convinced  are  escaping 
from  the  obsession  of   this  imposing  theory  of  absolute  " 
socialism.     They  are  beginning  to  see  that  the  predictions 
of  Marx,  based  upon  the  conditions  of  an  earlier  and  cruder 
era  of  machine  production,  run  counter  to  the  mass  of 


, 


74  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

evidence  accumulated  during  the  last  fifty  years.  Lesser 
men  possessed  of  later  knowledge  are  learning  to  interpret 
otherwise  the  vast  democratic  reorganization  of  society 
which  Marx  foresaw. 

In  the  first  place,  as  Marx  later  saw,  no  progressive  im- 
poverishment of  the  working  classes,  no  "increasing  misery, 
oppression,  servitude,  degradation^  and  exploitation  ".Jias 
taken  place.  The  workers  have  become,  not  poorer,  but 
richer.  While  wages  have  not  increased  at  a  rate  com- 
mensurate with  the  growth  in  social  wealth;  while  the 
progress  of  workingmen  has  been  everywhere  slower  than 
the  ideals  of  our  civilization  imperatively  demand  and  the 
resources  of  our  civilization  render  possible;  while  the 
status  of  the  unskilled  laborer  remains  exceedingly  low,  still 
it  is  evident  that  in  America,  Germany,  France,  England,  and 
elsewhere,  progress  has  been  continuous.  Wages  during  the 
last  half  century  have  risen  faster  than  prices,1  hours  of 

1  It  is  absolutely  impossible  within  the  compass  of  a  note,  or  indeed  of 
a  whole  book,  to  give  even  an  outline  of  the  vast  body  of  evidence  pointing  to 
the  rise  in  wages  in  the  industrial  nations  of  the  world  during  the  last  sixty 
or  seventy  years.  One  can  here  refer  to  only  a  few  of  the  various  com- 
pilations made  in  the  different  countries.  For  a  succinct  statement  of  the 
rise  of  wages  in  Germany  from  1871  to  1907,  see  the  masses  of  statistics  col- 
lated by  Dr.  R.  R.  Kuczynski,  "  Die  Entwickelung  der  gewerblichen  Lohne 
seit  der  Begriindung  des  Deutschen  Reiches,"  Berlin  (Georg  Reimer),  1909. 
For  England,  see  Bowley  (Arthur  L.),  "Wages  in  the  United  Kingdom  in 
the  Nineteenth  Century,"  Cambridge  (University  Press),  1900.  For 
France,  see  LeVasseur  (Emile),  "  La  Population  Francaise,"  as  also  a  later 
pamphlet,  "  Le  Salariat "  (1903).  See  also  the  report  of  the  French  Office 
du  Travail  showing  the  rise  of  wages  in  France  from  1806  to  1900.  For 
summaries  of  the  course  of  wages  in  various  occupations  in  Denmark,  Nor- 
way, Germany,  France,  Austria,  Hungary,  etc.,  within  recent  decades, 
see  the  various  tables  in  the  Board  of  Trade  (Labour  Department),  Fourth 
Abstract  of  Foreign  Labour  Statistics,  London,  1911,  pages  21-132  in- 
clusive. 

Any  summary  of  figures  so  broad  can  have  but  a  vague  meaning,  but 
it  would  appear  that  from  1840  to  1911,  money  wages  have  more  than 
doubled  in  France  and  in  England,  and  that  the  rate  of  increase  during  the 
last  forty  years  has  been  more  rapid  in  Germany  than  in  England  or  France 
in  the  same  period.     These  wages,  it  is  true,  are  merely  money  or  nominal 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE   CLASS  WAR  175 

labor  have  been  reduced,  and  factory  conditions  have  been 
improved.  Laws  have  set  limits  to  the  labor  of  women  and 
children,  have  protected  life,  limb,  and  health  of  workers, 
and  have  provided  for  a  recovery  of  damages  in  case  of 
injury  or  death.  In  many  countries  (although  not  in 
America)  the  status  of  the  workingman  is  improved  by  com- 
pulsory state  insurance  against  old  age,  sickness,  accident, 
and  invalidity,  and,  in  isolated  places,  even  against  unem- 
ployment. Trade-unions,  growing  to  enormous  national 
aggregations,  greatly  improve  labor  conditions.  Through 
the  spread  of  general  educational  facilities,  through  housing 
reform,  health  reform,  and  a  progressive  social  policy,  the 
status  of  workmen  is  further  raised.  In  one  country  after 
another  the  workingman  is  enfranchised,  and  is  protected 
from  intimidation  and  fraud  at  the  polls.  The  right  to 
combine  in  trade-unions  and  to  strike  is  generally  acknowl- 
edged. Large  sections  of  the  working  class  are  successively 
raised  above  the  level  of  the  unskilled,  and  fresh  demands 
are  constantly  made  by  new  industries  for  new  grades  of 
skill.  While  there  are  counteracting  tendencies,  while  the 
increasing  intensity  and  monotony  of  labor  and  the  divorce 
of  the  worker  from  the  plot  of  ground  which  he  once  owned 
work  to  his  disadvantage,  his  continuous  progress  is  indis- 

wages,  but  after  deduction  has  been  made  for  the  net  increase  in  prices 
(including  the  enormous  increase  in  city  rents),  there  is  apparently  left  a 
fairly  wide  margin  of  net  gain.  According  to  an  estimate  of  Gide  (Charles) , 
"  Cours  d'Economie  Politique  "  (Paris,  1911,  p.  665),  there  has  occurred  in 
France,  during  the  nineteenth  century,  an  increase  in  the  cost  of  living  of 
not  over  one  third,  while  money  wages  have  more  than  doubled.  This 
estimate  does  not  take  into  account  the  relative  amounts  of  unemploy- 
ment at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end  of  the  period,  nor  the  rapid  rise  in 
prices  during  the  years  since  1900. 

The  masses  of  statistics,  while  they  do  not  allow  conclusions  to  be  drawn 
as  to  the  exact  amount  of  the  increase  in  real  wages,  do  not  permit  doubt 
as  to  the  reality  of  such  a  rise.  For  an  "  attempted  explanation  of  the  in- 
crease in  wages  during  the  last  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,"  see 
Schmoller  (Gustav),  "  Die  historische  Lohnbewegung  von  1300-1900  und 
ihre  Ursachen." 


/ 


176  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

putable.  The  motive  power  of  the  workman's  dissatisfaction 
and  revolt  is  the  enormous  distance  between  his  actual 
status  and  his  increasing  demands,  rather  than  any  hypo- 
thetical impoverishment. 

Not  only  is  the  wage  earner  not  becoming  impoverished, 
but  there  is  no  likelihood,  in  America  at  least,  of  an  absorp- 
tion by  this  class  of  all  other  classes,  and  a  reduction  of  all 
conflicts  to  one  great  class  war.  Although  our  factory 
population,  recruited  largely  through  immigration,  is  in- 
creasing at  a  stupendous  rate,  the  other  classes  in  the  com- 
munity maintain  themselves.  In  America,  as  in  Germany, 
France,  and  elsewhere,  the  non-wage-earning  class  is  actually 
growing.  Despite  department  stores  and  "  chains  of  stores, " 
the  number  of  shopkeepers  seems  to  increase;  and  even 
where  these  small  tradesmen  are  more  dependent  than 
formerly  upon  the  favor  of  an  industrial  overlord,  they  can- 
not be  identified  in  interest  with  the  wage-earning  prole- 
tariat, and  cannot  be  gathered  upon  a  platform  which  calls 
for  the  social  appropriation  of  the  means  of  production.1 

The  independent  farmer  is  not  disappearing.  He  is  not 
becoming  a  proletarian.  The  bonanza  farms,  far  from 
killing  off  the  little  farms  (as  had  been  predicted),  are  them- 
selves succumbing;  and  the  tendency,  in  America  as  in 
most  countries,  is  away  from  any  concentration  of  farm 
ownership.  In  1900  there  were  four  times  as  many  Ameri- 
can farms  as  in  1850.  The  average  size  of  the  farm  was 
smaller  in  1900  than  in  1850  or  1870.  The  great  estates  of 
1000  acres  and  more,  while  aggregating  (in  1900)  over 
200,000,000  acres,  are  for  the  most  part  largely  uncultivated 
areas  or  else  cheap  and  arid  tracts  in  the  West,  of  which 
the  cultivable  portions  are  doomed  to  be  speedily  parceled 
out  among  an  increasing  number  of  farmers.    Notwith- 

1  According  to  the  census  of  1900,  the  number  of  retail  merchants  and 
dealers  in  the  United  States  increased  in  ten  years  from  660,239  to  790,886, 
a  rate  of  increase  slightly  less  than  that  of  the  population. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  177 

standing  an  increase  in  farm  tenancy,  both  relative  and 
absolute,  the  actual  number  of  farmers  owning  and  operat- 
ing their  own  farms  is  greater  than  ever  before;    while, 
parenthetically,  the  tenants  are  for  the  most  part  not  an 
entirely  unpropertied  class.     The  number  of  farm  laborers 
(other  than  members  of  the  farmer's  family)  remains  small, 
aggregating  only  two  such  laborers  to  every  ,;iive  farms; 
while  the  chances  of  these  laborers  eventually  to  become 
farmers,  although  probably  decreasing,  are  still  good.     A*"^ 
concentration  of  the  land  into  a  few  hands  is  not  micro-  / 
scopically   probable.     A   proletarization   of   our   property-/ 
owning  farming  class  is  impossible.  ^^ 

Nor  are  other  small  property  owners  being  reduced  to  the 
position  of  proletarians.  Like  the  wage  earners,  so  also  our 
small  property  owners  are  advancing  in  prosperity  and  are 
accumulating  more  property.  That  a  violent  concentration 
of  wealth  is  taking  place  at  the  top  is  confoundingly  patent, 
but  it  is  almost  equally  evident,  and  is  even  more  significant, 
that  a  wide  diffusion  of  wealth  is  occurring  simultaneously. 
Tens  of  millions  of  Americans  own  farms,  houses,  shops, 
businesses;  or  have  bank  accounts,  life  insurance  interests, 
mortgages,  bonds,  stocks,  or  other  property  or  evidences  of 
property,  individual  or  joint.  In  countries  where  there  are 
income  tax  figures,  a  progressive  diffusion  of  wealth  can  be 
statistically  shown.  In  America  the  tendency  is  evident, 
although  not  equally  capable  of  statistical  demonstration.1 

The  Marxist  theory  of  a  successful  revolution  based  upon 
the  creation  of  two  hostile  classes,  standing  nakedly  opposed 
in  society,  one,  the  superfluously  wealthy  possessors  of  the 
means  of  production,  the  other,  a  swelling  mass  of  miserable, 

1  For  European  evidence,  see  Leroy-Beaulieu  (Paul),  "Le  Collectivisme," 
Paris  (Felix  Alcan) ,  1909.  See  also  the  Socialist,  Bernstein  (Edward) , "  Evo- 
lutionary Socialism,"  New  York  (B.  W.  Huebsch) ,  1909.  For  the  diffusion 
of  French  wealth,  see  Neymarck  (Alfred),  "French  Savings  and  their  In- 
fluence upon  the  Bank  of  France  and  upon  French  Banks."  Senate  Docu- 
ment, 61st  Congress,  2d  session,  Document  No.  494. 


178  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

absolutely  destitute  proletarians,  thus  appears  economically 
untenable.  The  proletariat  advances;  wealth  becomes 
diffused;  the  small  property  holders  increase  in  numbers. 
The  theory  is  perhaps  even  more  untenable  on  other  grounds. 
For  were  a  struggle  between  two  such  classes  possible,  its 
outcome  might  be  very  different  from  what  Marx  pre- 
dicted. 

In  America  there  are  men,  who  not  only  foresee,  but 
actually  see  such  a  sharp  and  naked  alignment  of  the  two 
classes.  For  them  there  are  but  two  groups  —  the  very 
rich  and  the  desperately  poor.  So  completely  is  their  canvas 
filled  by  sprawling,  fatuous  scions  of  multimillionaires  on 
the  one  hand  and  overworked,  unskilled  laborers  on  the 
other,  that  they  no  longer  see  the  average  man,  who  keepsy 
no  servant  and  has  but  a  one  week's  vacation,  but  who, 
judged  by  the  standards  of  other  nations  and  other  times, 
is  well-fed,  well-housed,  well-clothed,  well-conditioned,  with 
some  leisure  and  recreation.  They  note  only  the  melo- 
dramatic contrasts  between  excessive  wealth  and  abysmal 
poverty,  and  they  generalize  and  despair.  For  the  extreme 
contrasts  are  glaring,  and  the  rich  seem  so  strong,  so  en- 
trenched, so  splendidly  and  brutally  successful,  while  the 
very  poor  seem  to  lack  all  elements  of  defense  or  aggression, 
—  without  money,  without  education,  without  political  tra- 
ditions, without  cohesion,  or  the  common  tongue  upon 
which  to  build  it.  * 

A  few  years  ago,  Mr.  Upton  Sinclair,  in  a  startling  book 
called  "The  Jungle/'  described  the  horrible  conditions  of 
the  Chicago  stockyards.-  A  Lithuanian  laborer,  named 
Jurgis,  is  exploited  at  every  turn;  his  wife  dies,  his  family 
is  broken  up;  he  himself  is  sent  to  jail.  He  passes  from 
despair  to  vindictive  hatred,  only  to  be  rescued  by  his  con- 
version to  socialism. 

The  book  is  not  false  in  essentials,  whatever  its  exag- 
gerations in  detail.     We  read  accounts  of  almost  equally 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE   CLASS  WAR  179 

brutal  conditions  in  Pittsburg,  Bethlehem,  and  in  the 
sweatshops  of  a  dozen  American  cities.  We  need  not  go 
beyond  cautious  and  authoritative  government  reports  to 
believe  that  organized  anonymous  cruelties  are  perpetrated 
for  profit  on  hundreds  of  thousands  of  workmen  and  work- 
women in  the  United  States.  It  is  murder  veiled  and  im- 
personal, but  it  is  still  murder. 

It  is  an  error,  however,  in  fixing  our  attention  upon  this 
menacing  problem  of  the  destruction  of  our  very  poor, 
mentally  to  carry  over  conditions  such  as  existed  in  the 
Chicago  stockyards  to  our  whole  industrial  problem. 
America  is  not  divided  into  Beef  Trust  magnates  and 
Lithuanian  helots.  Jurgis,  poor,  ignorant,  dumb,  and  be- 
wildered, is  no  more  typical  than  Armour,  though  both 
exist,  and  both  are  problems. 

From  the  men  at  the  very  bottom  (so  long  as  they  remain 
there)  less  perhaps  is  to  be  hoped  than  feared.  Such  men 
are  not  the  standard  bearers  of  revolt,  nor  the  steady  carriers 
of  the  torch  of  progress.  They  are  the  stuff  of  which  bloody, 
unsuccessful  uprisings  might  be  made,  but  they  are  too 
poor,  too  ignorant,  and,  by  their  very  economic  dependences, 
too  inconstant  and  fearsome,  to  lead  or  even  effectively 
to  participate  in  the  tenacious,  long-continued  campaigns 
which  must  precede  any  revolutionary  change  in  the  bases 
of  modern  society.  You  can  vote  illiterate  men  more 
easily  than  literate.  You  can  appeal  with  a  "full  dinner 
pail"  to  men  on  the  verge  of  starvation.  You  can  convert 
a  mass  of  underfed,  and,  therefore,  irresolute  and  credulous, 
men  into  engines  of  tyranny  and  reaction.  The  nobler  men 
on  the  hunger  line  are  full  of  generous  aspirations,  but  they 
have  not  preeminent  intellectual  power  nor  the  capacity  for 
objective  thinking  and  sustained  action.  These  starved 
souls  evolve  religious,  not  political  policies;  they  develop 
kingdoms  in  heaven,  not  materialized  cooperative  common- 
wealths. 


180  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

That  the  most  indigent  among  Americans  are  not  the 
leaders  of  democracy  may  be  seen  from  a  consideration  of 
the  status  of  the  Negro.  Our  ten  million  Negroes,  con- 
sidered as  a  whole,  are  the  most  exploited  section  of  the 
community.  To  the  burden  of  racial  prejudice  have  been 
added  severe  industrial  handicaps  and  a  general  disfranchise- 
ment. The  race  is  too  poor,  weak,  ignorant,  and  disunited 
to  make  effective  protest.  For  the  most  part  it  constitutes 
—  through  fault  of  circumstance  —  an  inert  mass,  which 
could  perhaps  be  more  readily  used,  both  industrially  and 
politically,  for  the  prevention  of  democracy  than  for  its 
attainment.  While  the  Negro  is  rapidly  progressing,  while 
the  future  may  well  bring  forth  a  prosperous,  intelligent, 
united,  and  politically  intrenched  colored  population,  the 
role  of  the  Negro  in  our  progress  towards  democracy  will 
for  the  time  being  remain  wholly  subordinate. 

The  same  is  true,  to  a  less  extent,  of  the  most  exploited 
of  our  recent  immigrants.     The  newly  arrived  Italian  day 
laborer  is  not  so  discontented,  nor  so  effective  a  fighter  for 
democracy,  as  is  the  richer  immigrant  who  has  been  here  a 
dozen  years,  or  as  is  the  son  of  the  immigrant.     Where  the 
newcomer  possesses  a  keen  intelligence  and  an  aggressive 
discontent,  these  qualities  may  make  up  for  a  low  industrial 
status.     Generally  speaking,  however,  intense  poverty,  bear-  \ 
ing  the  sordid  fruits,  pauperism,  crime,  vice,  sickness,  and 
premature  death,  does  not  make  for  democratic  reform.     A^ 
really  effective  discontent  accompanies  a  larger  income,  a   > 
greater  leisure,  a  fuller  education,  and  a  vision  of  better^ 
^  things. 

The  hope  of  society  lies,  not  in  the  oppression  of  men  to 
the  verge  of  revolt,  but  in  the  continuous  eUmination  of 
oppression.  The  hunger  of  the  multitude  is  not  the  true 
motive  of  revolution.  Hunger  degenerates;  insecurity  of 
life  leads  to  crime;  and  these,  by  enfeebling  their  victims, 
strengthen  the  oppressive  bonds  and  make  them  perpet- 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  181 

ual.     A  man  or  a  class,  crushed  to  earth  —  is  crushed  to 
earth.1 

What  then  remains  of  the  early  vigor  of  the  theory  of  a 
successful  class  war  between  a  swarming  proletariat  and  a 
small  machine-owing  class  ?  If  ^the  men  who  have  "  nothing 
to  lose  but  their  chains"  are  actually  the  weakest,  most 
ignorant,  and  most  disunited  members  of  society;  if  those 
who  have  nothing  are  only  a  minority,  gradually  dwindling 
(and  are  opposed  to  an  increasing  majority  who  are  indeed 
poor,  but  are  growing  steadily  wealthier), —  what  hope  is 
there  that  the  smaller,  weaker,  declining  class  will  overcome 
the  opposition  of  the  larger,  stronger,  growing  class  ?  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  proletariat  does  not  consist  solely  of 
the  propertyless  nor  even  of  wage  earners ;  if  rising  wages, 
savings,  and  the  actual  ownership  of  the  means  of  produc- 
tion do  not  take  a  man  out  of  the  proletariat,  where  is  the 
alignment  of  the  class  war  ? 

These  considerations  have  not  been  without  their  effect 
upon  the  defenders  of  the  class  war  theory.  In  the  writings 
of  many  socialists  the  conception  of  a  class  war  has  been 
so  watered  as  completely  to  alter  its  original  significanc 
In  many  countries  there  have  been  observable  the  begin- 
nings of  a  change  from  an  older,  more  abstract,  absolute, 
and  dogmatic  socialism  to  a  newer,  more  concrete,  con- 
ditional, and  conciliatory  socialism.  The  tendency  igj^^ 
especially  apparent  in  countries  which  are  democratically 
representative,  and  in  which,  therefore,  a  conciliatory  policy 
is  likely  to  secure  a  larger  vote  and  a  greater  measure  of 

1  Neither  Marx  nor  Engels  believed  in  the  revolutionary  qualities  of 
paupers  and  criminals.  "  The  '  dangerous  class, '  the  social  scum,  that  pas- 
sively rotting  mass  thrown  off  by  the  lowest  layers  of  old  society,  may, 
here  and  there,  be  swept  into  the  movement  by  a  proletarian  revolution ;  .  f 
its  conditions  of  life,  however,  prepare  it  far  more  for  the  part  of  a  bribed  j  v  v 
tool  of  reactionary  intrigue."  "Communist  Manifesto."  Authorized- 
English  Translation.  Edited  and  annotated  by  Frederick  Engels,  Chicago 
(Kerr  &  Co.),  p.  29. 


Ite,    ^ 


(182  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

immediate  influence.     It  is  less  apparent  in  countries  where 
political  democracy  is  not  so  assured  and  where  an  uncom- 
promising party  must  fight  for  preliminary  political  rights. 
In  Germany,  where  a  reactionary  feudal  class  still  holds 
power,  the  Socialist  party  is  the  most  effective  democratic 

\  party,  and  many  men  who  do  not  believe  in  the  class  strug- 
gle vote  the  Socialist  ticket  to  express  their  preferences  for 
immediate  reforms  or  their  protest  against  concrete  evils. 
In  more  democratic  countries,  on  the  other  hand,  such  as 
France,  England,  the  United  States,  and  Switzerland,  the 
Socialist  party  is  obliged  to  compete  for  the  suffrage^  of  the 
people  with  other  democratic  parties,  with  the  result  that 
not  only  is  the  vote  smaller,  but  the  movement  tends  gradu- 
ally to  lose  something  of  its  old  class  war  characteristics. 
"Some  of  our  Socialist  comrades,"  recently  said  Jaur&s, 
"  interpret  the  class  war  in  a  sense  much  too  simple,  one- 
sided, and  abstract."  According  to  Sarraute,  the  class  war 
is  not  "an  absolute  abstract  principle"  absorbing  "the 
whole  life  of  society."  "As  soon  as  the  State  is  democra- 
tized, and  equal  rights  are  admitted  for  all,  whether  capital- 
ists or  proletarians,  ...  it  becomes  contradictory  and  mean- 
ingless to  talk  of  a  class  State." 

The  rise  everywhere  among  Socialists  of  "possibilists," 
"opportunists,"  "revisionists,"  and  "Fabians"  emphasizes 
the  attempt  to  adjust  the  old  absolute  theories  not  only  to 
varying  conditions  in  different  countries,  but  also  to  those 
broad  democratic  impulses  which  are  now  sweeping  through 
other  classes  besides  the  proletariat.  The  tendency  is  to 
change  party  policy  from  a  merely  critical  and  sweepingly 
destructive,  to  a  constructive,  and  therefore  more  concilia- 
tory, attitude,  to  moderate  the  demands,  to  broaden  the 
appeal.  The  attempt  to  found  a  majority  upon  "the  pro- 
letariat," upon  the  propertyless  wage  and  salary  workers, 
is  being  given  up,  and  the  appeal  is  now  being  made,  not  so 
much  to  "wage  earners,"  as  to  "workers,"  "producers," 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  183 

and  to  the  masses  generally.  In  the  effort  to  secure  the  " 
adherence  of  farmers,  even  property  owners  are  being  ad- 
dressed, a  distinction  being  drawn  between  the  means  of 
production  which  exploit  labor,  and  those  means  of  produc- 
tion (the  small  farm)  which  are  already  in  the  hands  of  the 
producer,  and  are  therefore,  inferentially,  not  exploitative.1 
These  non-exploiting  means  of  production,  moreover,  seem 
likely  long  to  remain  innocuous .  ' '  One  thing  seems  certain, ' ' 
says  the  American  socialist,  John  Spargo,  " namely,  that 
farm  ownership  (in  the  United  States)  is  not  on  the  decline. 
It  is  not  being  supplanted  by  tenantry ;  the  small  farms  are 
not  being  absorbed  by  large  ones.  .  .  .  The  small  farmer 
will  continue  to  be  an  important  factor  —  indeed,  the  most 
important  factor  —  in  American  agriculture  for  a  long  time 
to  come,  perhaps  permanently.  If  the  socialist  movement 
is  to  succeed  in  America,  it  must  recognize  this  fact  in  its 
propaganda."  2  //In  other  words  the  Socialist  party,  to  be-  v/ 
come  effective,  must  secure  the  adherence,  or  allay  the  op- 
position, of  this  powerful  property-owning  class. 

It  can  do  this  in  one  way  only  —  through  a  surrender 
of  doctrines.  Tenets  which  alienate  classes  whose  support 
is  essential  must  of  necessity  be  abandoned.  Such  doctrines 
may  be  bravely  recanted  or  eloquently  ignored,  or  by  pro- 
cess of  interpretation  may  be  magically  transformed  into 
their  opposites.  But  their  change  is  inevitable,  when  the 
classes  to  which  they  were  to  appeal  have  changed. 

The  socialist  believers  in  a  class  war  between  proletariat 

4  Such  a  distinction  could  be  more  easily  made  in  practice  than  justi- 
fied in  theory.  If  it  is  not  exploitation  for  a  farmer  to  till  his  own  farm, 
does  it  become  exploitation  when  he  hires  his  son,  or  his  nephew,  or,  at 
harvest  times,  a  single  outside  helper  ?  An  attempt  to  apply  this  distinc- 
tion would  result  in  a  rough  discrimination  against  large  estates,  which 
thereupon  would  be  parceled  out  into  small  holdings.  Such  an  agricul- 
tural decentralization,  however,  would  be  very  far  from  the  old  socialistic 
ideal. 

2  Spargo,  John,  "Socialism,  a  Summary  and  Interpretation  of  Socialist 
Principles."    New  York  (Macmillan),  1909,  p.  134. 


184  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  bourgeoisie  are  in  an  uncomfortable  dilemma.  If  the 
proletariat  does  not  become  the  overwhelming  majority  of 
the  nation,  but  remains  a  minority,  it  cannot  hope  to  gain 
its  ends  unaided.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  the  city  proletariat 
seeks  the  permanent  adherence  of  small  farmers,  of  farm 
laborers  (with  the  hope  of  becoming  farmers),  of  small 
tradesmen  with  some  little  equity  in  their  business,  of 
other  men  with  a  little  property,  it  must  so  mitigate  the  origi- 
nal rigor  of  its  demands  as  to  insure  these  potential  allies 
against  expropriation.  The  owner  of  a  five-thousand-dollar 
farm,  covered  by  a  two-thousand-dollar  mortgage,  has  still  a 
precious  equity  of  three  thousand  dollars  in  his  land.  Such 
a  farmer  may  be  vitally  interested  in  the  control  of  railroad 
rates,  elevator  charges,  and  trust  prices,  but  he  does  not 
approve  of  any  social  reorganization,  however  ultimately 
beneficent,  which  will  take  from  him  his  three  thousand  dol- 
lars, or  his  farm  and  his  immediate  livelihood,  with  or  with- 
out compensation. 

If,  however,  the  private  ownership  of  small  and  medium- 
sized  farms,  and  of  houses,  live  stock,  and  machinery  on 
farms,  be  conceded,  other  demands  for  concessions  will  be 
inevitable.  The  small  shopkeeper,  with  no  aptitude  for 
factory  labor  and  with  a  consciousness  of  fulfilling  a  humble 
social  service,  will  demand  the  retention  of  his  business, 
which  has  a  greater  value  to  him  than  the  money  which  it 
represents.  Gradually  the  socialists  will  recognize  that 
the  hope  of  a  radical  industrial  reorganization  depends  upon 
the  assent  of  so  large  a  section  of  the  men  with  small  prop- 
erty as  to  compel  a  readjustment  of  their  social  program. 

Such  a  readjustment  involves  a  complete  surrender  of  the 
old  idea  of  expropriation,  which  appeals  only  to  the  already 
completely  expropriated.  The  Marxian  theory  of  surplus 
value  had  given  this  demand  for  expropriation  an  ethical 
justification.  But  that  theory  has  proved  untenable.  We 
can  no  longer  argue  deductively  that  private  ownership 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  185      \f 

automatically,  inevitably,  and  always  leads  to  exploitation.// 
To  prove  that  our  present  distribution  of  income  is  immoral, 
we  must  base  the  immorality  inductively  on  the  social  con-  p 
sequences   of   such   distribution.     The   whole   problem   of 
distribution  ceases  to  be  one  of  absolute  right  and  becomes 
one  of  relative  utility.  ^ ■ 

Moreover,  just  as  the  extent  of  the  proposed  expropriation 
must  be  limited  by  exceptions  in  favor  of  the  little  farm 
and  other  small  properties,  so  the  quality  of  expropriation  is 
bound  so  to  be  changed  as  to  make  the  very  term  "  expro- 
priation" inapposite.  When  social  utility  rather  than  ab- 
stract right  becomes  the  guidinglorce  oTsocialism,  the  prob- 
lem will  arise,  whether  a  given  property  should  be  taken 
over  or  merely  regulated  and  its  profits  limited;  whether 
in  another  industry  increased  taxation,  or  perhaps  the  re- 
tention by  the  state  of  the  future  unearned  increment,  may 
not  be  more  socially  advantageous  than  collective  ownership """v^ 
and  operation.  In  short,  the  problem  will  become  one  of  dr 
ways  and  means.  The  line  of  attack  will  become  the  line 
of  least  resistance  and  of  greatest  results.  Society  will 
seek  to  modify  and  socially  utilize,  rather  than  incontinently 
to  destroy,  our  machinery  of  industrial  organization  (trusts, 
corporations,  exchange,  wage  system,  etc.).  Progress  will 
become  adjustment  by  the  gradual  adaptation  of  production 
to  social  uses,  rather  than  axomplete  overturn,  either  violent 
or  peaceful,  either  rapid  or  slow,  of  our  industrial  habits  and  s** 
implements.  This  process  will  tend  to  become  an  attrition, 
a  wasting  away,  a  successive  attenuation  of  " vested  rights," 
rather  than  a  naked  expropriation.  Finally  this  abrasion 
of  rights  will  be  compelled  by  ah  overwhelming  flood  of 
votes  and  an  irresistible  pressure  of  an  enlightening  public 
opinion,  rather  than  by  a  class  war,  as  the  class  war  was 
formerly  interpreted. 

It  is  not  assumed  that  this  complete  volte-face  of  the  Social- 
ist parties  has  already  taken  place.     Even  in  countries  with 


/ 


186  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

universal  suffrage,  popular  institutions,  improving  labor 
conditions,  and  large  classes  of  small  property  holders,  the 
change  in  policy  has  only  begun ;  and  even  the  beginnings 
are  resisted.  Party  leaders  are  usually  narrow,  formal,  and 
conservative,  seeking  to  emphasize  distinctions,  placing 
party  organization  and  party  claims  above  the  general  wel- 
fare. But  parties,  whether  in  power,  opposition,  or  protest, 
tend  to  reflect  the  voter's  perception  of  industrial  changes; 
for  a  party  without  votes,  however  high  its  ideals,  is  not  a 
party.  The  gradual  (kwi&stication  of  the  Socialist  parties, 
if  one  may  use  that  word,  is  thus  compelled  by  the  view,  not 
of  the  leaders,  but  of  the. j)u^tside_masses  of  potentially 
Socialist  voters.1 

1  The  National  (1908)  Program  of  the  Socialist  party  reveals  the  extent 
to  which  the  class  war  doctrine  has  been  surrendered.  The  class  war  was 
originally  an  inevitable,  universal,  unique,  and  absolutely  unconditional 
war  between  proletariat  and  bourgeoisie,  between  wage  earners  and  cap- 
italists, who,  by  the  very  fact  of  their  being  capitalists,  were  exploiters  of 
labor.  That  war  now  becomes  a  softened  conflict  between  "the  workers 
of  the  nation  and  their  allies  and  sympathizers  of  all  classes"  on  the  one 
side,  and  "a  few  capitalists,  .  .  .  permitted  to  control  all  the  country's 
industrial  resources,"  on  the  other.  The  party  no  longer  appeals  solely 
to  men  who  sell  their  labor,  but  also  to  those  who  sell  the  products  of  their 
labor.  It  no  longer  appeals  exclusively  to  the  wageworkers  or  proletarians, 
but  to  the  far  vaguer  and  more  inclusive  groups  of  "workers"  and  "pro- 
ducers." A  half  appeal  is  made  to  "the  small  farmer,  who1  is  to-day  ex- 
ploited by  large  capital"  ;  to  the  "small  manufacturer  and  trader,  who  is 
engaged  in  a  desperate  and  losing  struggle"  against  "concentrated  capital"  ; 
and  to  "even  the  capitalist  himself  (note  here  the  meaning  of  "capitalist"), 
who  is  the  slave  of  his  wealth  rather  than  its  master."  The  goal  of  the 
party  is  the  social  ownership,  not  of  the  land  and  the  means  of  production, 
but  "of  the  land  and  the  means  of  production  used  for  exploitation"  "The 
Socialist  party  strives  to  prevent  land  from  being  used  for  the  purpose 
of  exploitation  and  speculation.  It  demands  the  collective  possession,  con- 
trol, or  management  of  land  to  whatever  extent  may  be  necessary  to  attain  that 
end.  It  is  not  opposed  to  the  occupation  and  possession  of  land  by  those 
using  it  in  a  useful  and  bona-fide  manner  without  exploitation."  In  these 
and  other  directions,  logic  and  the  traditions  of  socialism  are  sacrificed  to 
new  party  ideals,  and  the  class  war  theory,  no  longer  necessary,  is  denied 
in  the  very  process  of  affirmation. 

If  it  be  contended  that  the  National  Party  Program  does  not  represent 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  187 

This  incipient  modification  of  the  policy  of  the  Socialist 
parties  thus  acquires  a  peculiar  significance,  because  of  the 
light  it  casts  upon  the  tremendous,  deep-lying  changes  in 
public  opinion  outside.  That  there  will  long  remain  a  small 
group  of  Simon-pure,  hard-shell,  "stand  pat"  Socialist 
irreconcilables  is  as  probable  as  that  there  will  remain  for 
decades  groups  of  men  hopeless  of  betterment.  For  the 
majority  of  avowed  Socialists,  however,  to  whom  the  general 
ideals,  rather  than  the  abstract  philosophy  or  ultimate  pro- 
gram of  their  party,  appeal,  a  progressive  rapprochement 
with  other  democratic  elements  of  the  population  seems 
decreed  by  the  logic  of  our  development.  What  will  be  the 
name,  badge,  or  token  of  the  party,  parties,  or  allied  frag- 
ments of  parties,  which  will  result  from  such  a  union  or  ab- 
sorption, is  insignificant.  The  essential  tendency,  however, 
seems  to  be  a  progress  of  Socialist  parties  towards  coalescence 
with  other  democratic  movements,  the  socialists  losing  many 
of  their  separatist  views,  while  infusing  the  democracy  as  a 
whole  with  broader  concepts  of  industrial  polity. 

In  America  the  old  doctrine  of  a  class  war  between  two 
classes  must  of  absolute  necessity  be  given  up  by  the  Socialist 
party  and  must  fail  of  adoption  by  other  parties.  The  dog- 
matic absoluteness  of  the  position  appeals,  because  there  is 
in  all  of  us  a  certain  primitive  downrightness,  which  abhors 
gradations  and  qualifications  and  delights  in  sharp  moral 
contrasts.  But  the  facts  are  in  flat  contradiction  with  this 
oversimplified  theory,  and  to  propitiate  these  facts,  one  fat 
generalization  after  another  is  vainly  offered  up.  "Capital- 
ism" develops  elasticity.  Instead  of  dying  of  its  own  excesses, 
it  shows  wonderful  recuperative  and  self-reforming  power. 
Class  hatred  softens  as  the  working  class  strengthens,  and 

the  true  attitude  of  socialists  on  the  class  war  doctrine,  the  reader  is  re- 
ferred to  the  debates  in  convention.  See  "Proceedings  of  the  (1908) 
National  Convention,"  edited  by  John  M.  Work,  Chicago  (Socialist 
Party),  1908.     (The  italics  are  my  own.) 


188  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  impending  clash  between  the  classes  is  always  delayed. 
The  absolute  socialist  cries  "War,  War/'  when  there  is  no 
war.  If  the  owners  of  capital  were  fighting  for  life  and  were 
now,  as  is  alleged,  in  power,  they  might  at  least  be  tempted 
to  restrict  suffrage,  censor  the  press,  raise  armies  for  defense, 
close  schools,  lock  out  workmen,  stop  philanthropy,  and 
generally  carry  the  war  into  the  proletarian  camp. 
Either  the  capitalists  are  as  deficient  in  class  consciousness 
as  are  the  workingmen,  or  else  the  class  war  is  a  less  definite 
thing  than  we  have  been  taught  to  believe. 

What  has  happened  is  that  the  whole  problem  of  the  mu- 
tual relations  of  classes  has  moved  from  its  old  moorings, 
and  we  —  all  of  us  alike  —  have  drifted  into  a  new  economic 
and,  therefore,  into  a  new  psychological  world.  Just  as  the 
old  liberalism  was  deaf  and  blind  to  the  development  which 
was  to  superimpose  big  business  upon  little  business,  and 
monopoly  upon  competition,  so  the  old  absolute  socialism, 
with  keener  prevision,  failed  to  realize  the  limitations  and 
minor  tendencies  of  the  change,  the  persistence  of  the  small 
farm,  the  survival  and  even  the  strengthening  of  a  middle 
class,  the  material  progress  of  the  workingman,  the  possi- 
bility of  alignments  in  the  new  society  different  from  the 
alignment  within  the  factory.  The  old  laissez-faire  liberal 
philosophy  is  done  for,  and  the  old  absolute  socialism  is 
dying  in  the  embrace  of  its  dead  adversary.  To-day  even 
conservatives  unhesitatingly  accept  reforms  which,  a  gen- 
eration ago,  would  have  been  decried  as  socialistic,  while 
socialists  in  good  party  standing  propose  alliances,  con- 
cessions, and  palliatives  which  would  formerly  have  been 
called  (and  by  the  crassly  logical  are  still  called)  subversive 
of  socialistic  doctrine  and  inimical  to  the  emancipation  of 
the  proletariat. 

The  Socialist  parties  of  to-day  are  caught  in  a  bewildering 
transition,  analogous  to  that  of  their  opponents.  (Indeed 
they  scarcely  realize  now  who  are  their  opponents.)     The 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  CLASS  WAR  189 

aging,  dogmatic  revolutionaries,  who  for  forty  years  have 
dreamed  in  the  dark  of  the  hoped-for  flash  of  lightning,  are 
both  disappointed  and  dazzled  by  the  sober  light  of  social 
reform.  The  revisionists,  while  adapting  their  views  to 
the  changed  conditions,  still  cling  desperately  to  a  verbal 
allegiance  to  the  old  cramping  doctrine  of  class  war  in  order 
to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  so-called  bourgeois  social 
reformers  —  themselves  no  less  confused  —  who  have  ap- 
proached the  same  goal  from  a  diametrically  opposite  direc 
tion.  The  socialist,  who  is  beginning  to  lose  his  faith  in  the 
class  war  and  the  rigorous  nationalization  of  the  means  of 
production,  is  adopting  a  theory  of  a  democratic  socializa- 
tion of  industry  and  of  life ;  the  old  individualist,  losing  his 
faith  in  economic  harmonies  that  do  not  harmonize,  and  in 
the  beneficence  of  a  competition  which  has  gone  lame,  is 
approaching  in  a  more  tentative  manner  a  similar  theory  of 
a  democratic  socialization  of  industry  and  of  life.  The  men 
who  were  sharply  sundered  in  interests  and  ideals  by  the 
conditions  of  the  earlier  machine  production  have  been 
brought  into  partial  accord  by  the  conditions  of  a  later 
machine  era.  The  trust  builder,  the  monopolizer,  the  new 
Titan  of  industry,  has  not  only  merged  his  factories,  but 
united  his  opponents.1 

In  the  decades  to  come  —  during  the  democratic  sociali- 
zation of  America  which  has  already  begun  —  we  shall 
hear  less  of  this  doctrine  of  the  class  war.  There  will  be 
wide-ranging   conflicts   between   coalitions  of   classes,   but 

1  There  is  a  naive  theory  that  the  so-called  "menace  of  socialism"  will 
disappear  once  its  doctrines  are  demolished.  Prove  that  Marx's  analysis  of 
surplus  value  is  erroneous,  or  that  his  predictions  concerning  agricultural 
concentration  are  false,  and  lo,  the  repentant  hosts  of  socialism  will  rally 
about  the  old  standards.  Unfortunately  for  its  proponents,  this  soothing 
theory  contravenes  the  most  elemental  facts  of  social  life.  Heretics  do 
not  so  much  depend  upon  heresies  as  vice  versa.  Men  do  not  become  dis- 
contented because  they  have  theories,  but  have  theories  because  they  are 
discontented. 


I 


h 


</, 


190  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

there  will  also  be  adjustments  and  unions  for  the  attainment 
of  common  aims  and  for  a  succession  of  compromises  ren- 
dered possible  by  an  enormous  increase  in  the  social  prod- 
uct to  be  distributed.  Democratic  civilization  will  progress 
even  more  through  adjustment  and  education  than  through 
a  war  which  aids  one  class  and  injures  another.  Political 
power  in  the  state  will  not  change  from  one  class  to  its  op- 
ponent, like  a  reversible  top  or  an  overweighted  balance, 
for  the  state  is  not,  and  will  not  be,  absolutely  the  representa- 
tive of  a  single  class.  What  will  happen  will  be  a  relative 
increase  of  influence  by  certain  classes  through  the  nearer 
attainment  of  the  rule  of  the  majority.  There  will  be  an 
infiltration,  a  permeation  of  the  state  by  elements  more  and 
more  democratic.    We  shall  grow  into  democracy. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

DEMOCRACY  AND   THE   SOCIAL   SURPLUS 

OPPOSED  to  the  theory  that  democracy  is  to  be  at- 
tained through  a  class  war  is  the  theory  that  the 
attainment  of  democracy  will  result  from  a  national  adJ 
justment.  Opposed  to  the  theory  of  democratic  progress 
through  impoverishment  is  the  theory  of  progress  through 
prosperity. 

It  is  the  increasing  wealth  of  America,  not  the  growing 
poverty  of  any  class,  upon  which  the  hope  of  a  full  democracy 
must  be  based.  It  is  this  wealth  which  makes  democracy 
possible  and  solvent,  for  democracy,  like  civilization,  costs 
money.  Finally  it  is  this  social  surplus,  our  clear  gain  in 
wealth  after  the  year's  business  is  over,  our  excess  of  social 
product  over  social  effort,  which  renders  ignorance,  poverty, 
and  minority  rule  anachronistic,  and  gives  to  our  democratic 
strivings  a  moral  impulse  and  a  moral  sanction. 

The  surplus  of  society,  which  thus  overrides  all  our 
traditions  and  shapes  all  our  philosophies,  is  a  phenomenon 
of  transcendent  importance.  It  is  a  new  factor  in  man's 
career.  During  all  history,  prior  to  the  last  few  centuries, 
poverty,  pain,  and  deficit  ruled  the  world.1  Back  of  every 
society,  simple  or  complex,  lay  the  fateful  force  of  human 
fecundity.    The  increasing   population   pressed  upon  the 

1  For  the  original  statement  of  the  transition  from  a  pain  economy  to  a 
pleasure  economy,  see  the  brilliant  book  of  Professor  Simon  N.  Patten, 
"The  Theory  of  Social  Forces,"  Philadelphia  (American  Academy  of 
Political  and  Social  Science),  1896.  Without  wishing  in  any  way  to  fasten 
responsibility  upon  Professor  Patten  for  any  of  the  statements  in  this  pres- 
ent book,  the  author  desires  gratefully  to  make  the  fullest  possible  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  deep  indebtedness  to  that  great  teacher. 

191 


192  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

means  of  subsistence.  The  babe  pushed  his  parents  into 
the  grave.  For  every  man  killed  by  disease,  famine,  war, 
overwork,  a  child  was  born. 

During  certain  periods  of  this  long  reign  of  poverty  there 
were  " Golden  Ages,"  in  which  cities  of  brick  were  trans- 
formed into  cities  of  marble.  But  this  prosperity  was  only 
relative.  The  social  surplus  sufficed  to  create  a  lavish  court, 
to  build  pyramids,  palaces,  and  cathedrals,  to  maintain 
harems  and  armies,  to  furnish  to  the  few  a  suicidal  sensuality  ; 
but  it  could  not  give  ample  bread  and  leisure  to  the  swarm- 
ing people.  Wretchedly  poor  were  the  hewers  of  wood  and 
the  drawers  of  water.  The  toilers  who  built  the  wonderful 
edifices  of  antiquity,  the  men  who  lived  in  the  astonishing 
cities,  even  the  Roman  populace,  fed  by  doles  from  the 
tribute  takers  of  the  world,  were  for  the  most  part  miserably 
fed,  clad,  and  conditioned.  As  for  the  slaves,  the  serfs,  the 
peasants  of  the  world,  they  were  on  the  lowest  floor  of  human 
life.  Production  was  limited  by  the  narrow  bounds  of 
muscle  power  and  simple  tools.  It  was  limited  by  the  con- 
traction of  the  market,  for  commerce  was  largely  the  ex- 
change of  luxuries.  An  ultimate  prosperity  for  all  did  not 
seem  conceivable.  The  very  Utopias  of  ancient  times  were 
based  upon  slavery. 

The  political  equivalent  of  this  early  poverty  was  despot- 
ism. When  men  produce  barely  enough  to  permit  a  miser- 
able existence  (whatever  the  system  of  distribution),  there 
is  small  need  for  political  rights.  Men  do  not  vote,  just  as 
they  do  not  fight,  unless  there  is  something  to  vote  or  fight 
for.  If  through  revolt  the  poor  were  to  gain  temporary  con- 
trol, there  was  still  not  enough  to  go  round.  The  scant 
social  surplus  was  held  by  great  lords  and  military  chiefs, 
who  defended  it  against  fecund,  restless  peoples,  descending 
from  barren  lands  and  pressing  hungrily  upon  the  warm 
southern  empires.  Overpopulation  meant  chronic,  unin- 
terrupted war.    Fighting,  in  turn,  made  for  despotic  gov- 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  193 

ernment.  From  the  extra-hazardous  occupation  of  politics, 
an  occupation  largely  compounded  of  flattery  and  assas- 
sination, the  lowly  were  excluded. 

The  intellectual  equivalent  of  this  early  world  poverty 
was  passivity,  ignorance.  Oriental  fatalism  was  a  product 
of  poverty,  and  of  its  accompaniments,  pain,  hunger,  death. 
For  the  unnumbered  human  worms  who  lived  and  died, 
there  was  no  need  of  education.  The  art  of  life  was  tradi- 
tional. The  race  persisted  through  force  of  a  hard-shell 
conservatism,  crystallized  into  an  instinct,  which  took  the 
place  of  intelligence  and  innovation. 

During  all  those  thousands  of  years,  while  empires  rose 
and  fell,  and  rose  and  fell  again,  the  masses  of  the  people 
remained  abject.  A  servile  revolt  was  but  a  demand  for 
straw  with  which  to  make  bricks,  for  a  little  more  food,  for 
an  abrogation,  not  of  evils,  but  of  unaccustomed  evils. 
These  revolts  were  futile.  Even  though  for  a  moment  the 
hand  of  the  exploiter  relaxed,  inevitably  the  people  sank  to 
their  former  evil  state.  Religion,  philosophy,  superstition, 
folk-lore ;  the  sword,  lash,  wheel,  gibbet,  torture  chamber, 
—  all  these  but  reenforced  a  submission  which  social  poverty 
imposed. 

Without  an  excess  of  wealth  no  democracy  on  a  large  scale 
was  possible,  however  much  men  might  dream  dreams  or 
voices  cry  aloud  in  the  wilderness.  The  bases  for  such  a 
surplus  were  not  laid  until  the  economic  and  political  revo- 
lutions of  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  destroyed 
the  decentralized  feudal  structure  and  called  forth  nations 
and  a  national  economy.  With  the  demolition  of  local  cus- 
toms barriers,  commerce  grew,  the  market  was  widened, 
and  division  of  labor  was  rendered  possible.  The  exploita- 
tion of  American  silver  mines  and  the  rounding  of  the  Cape 
of  Good  Hope  hastened  the  growth  of  wealth.  It  was  not, 
however,  until  the  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  centuries  that 
steam  and  machinery  brought  forth  the  industrial  revolution, 


194  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  created  a  social  surplus  in  comparison  with  which  all 
prior  accumulations  were  insignificant.1 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a  " stake"  for  the  people, 
enough,  if  properly  held,  to  provide  a  livable  life  for  all  the 
populations.  The  denial  to  the  people  of  wealth  and  rights, 
which  had  found  its  moral  justification  in  the  early  poverty 
of  society,  became  ethically  untenable.  Democracy  be- 
came ultimately  inevitable.  For  in  final  analysis,  however 
it  may  be  clothed  in  legal  rights  and  political  immunities, 
democracy  means  material  goods  and  the  moral  goods  based 
thereon.  It  means  the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  the  objec- 
tivized  desires  of  men  —  the  chances  of  wealth,  recreation, 
leisure,  culture.  All  these  things,  the  product  of  the  social 
surplus,  have  been  multiplied  almost  ad  infinitum  by  machine 
process.  The  opportunities  of  life  in  our  new  world  of  sur- 
plus exceed  the  opportunities  of  life  in  the  old  world  of  deficit 
and  pain  as  the  thousand  copies  of  the  printed  book  exceed 
the  solitary  illuminated  manuscript. 

When  the  things  that  are  Caesar's  were  provided,  a  new 
Caesar  came  into  being.  It  was  the  people.  The  people, 
once  servile,  ignorant,  and  satisfied,  had  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree.  The  people  no  longer  cringed.  They  glowered 
at  the  bright  new  wares  in  the  windows ;  they  angrily  broke 
the  new  machines  which  poured  forth  masses  of  wealth  in 
which  the  workers  could  not  share.  The  people,  realizing 
that  they  were  hungry  (now  that  there  was  something  to 
eat),  began  to  question  all  the  revered  traditions  which  had 
made  eating  (by  the  vulgar)  a  sin,  crime,  and  economic 
absurdity,  and  which  had  exalted  abstinence  as  a  peculiarly 
amiable  popular  virtue.     When  the  people  saw  that  the 

1  It  is  a  curious  but  explicable  fact  that  the  theory  which  explains  the 
poverty  of  the  ancient  world,  the  theory  of  population,  did  not  receive 
authoritative  expression  until  the  age  was  already  passingj  When,  in 
1798,  Malthus  made  his  famous  generalizations,  his  conclusions,  so  largely 
true  of  the  past,  were  already  being  falsified  by  a  stupendous  increase  in 
productiveness  and  wealth. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL:  SURPLUS  195 

new  wealth  did  not  descend  the  factory  chimney  of  a  Christ- 
mas morn ;  when  they  saw  that  the  new  wealth  did  not  grow 
spontaneously  in  the  garden  of  the  " bread  giver";  when 
they  traced  the  wonderful  new  wealth  to  the  farms,  work- 
shops, and  grimy  factories,  where  very  common  folk  worked, 
—  the  people  began  to  question  the  morality  and  social 
efficiency  of  all  historic  distributions  of  wealth.  The  social 
surplus  not  only  excited  the  desires  but  stimulated  the  in- 
telligences of  the  people. 

The  creation  of  a  social  surplus,  however,  does  not  auto- 
matically or  immediately  give  rise  to  a  socialized  democracy^ 
It  creates  merely  the  opportunity  for  such  a  democracy.  \ 
The  new  wealth  does  not  distribute  itself  spontaneously^ 
according  to  the  needs  of  the  population,  and,  for  a  time,  an 
increase  in  the  social  product  may  mean  an  actual  lessening 
of  the  share  of  the  masses. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  era  of  a  great  social  surplus,  which 
we  may  approximately  date  from  1760  in  England  and  from 
1789  in  France,  the  fruits  of  the  revolutionizing  discoveries 
were  largely  monopolized  by  acquisitive  men.  Had  these 
wealthy  manufacturers,  themselves  revolutionists  and  up- 
starts, been  able  to  conserve  their  sudden  new  wealth  side 
by  side  with  a  general  wretchedness,  ignorance,  and  subjec- 
tion, the  masses  would  have  secured  a  share  of  wealth  and 
rights,  had  they  secured  it  at  all,  only  after  the  bloodiest  of 
revolutions. 

Fortunately,  the  rising  middle  classes,  finding  themselves 
held  down  by  a  reactionary  class,  were  compelled  to  appeal 
to  the  lowest  classes.  The  manufacturers  needed  the  pikes, 
guns,  and  clamor  of  the  mob  to  overcome  Swiss  guards,  an 
arrogant  nobility,  and  a  courtier  clergy.  To  loosen  the 
grip  of  the  feudal  fist  upon  their  own  purses,  the  manufac- 
turers were  compelled  to  hold  out  promises  to  the  "  lower 
orders." 

Other  rights  were  indispensable  to  business,  which,  as 


196  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

we  are  gradually  learning,  is  the  core  of  our  social  arrange- 
ments. To  " entice' '  laborers  from  the  stiff  old  agricultur- 
alists, it  was  necessary  to  give  workers  freedom  of  movement 
and  of  contract.  Freedom  of  contract,  sooner  or  later, 
meant  the  right  to  strike.  Striking  meant  higher  wages, 
shorter  hours,  and  better  conditions  of  work.  As  communi- 
cation improved,  men  widely  separated  in  distance  came 
into  contact,  and  as  business  became  concentrated,  work- 
men gathered  in  factories  and  learned  more  from  each  other 
in  the  lunch  hour  than  they  had  learned  from  pastor  or 
school-teacher.  Schools,  too,  were  necessary,  for  the  new 
machines  could  not  be  run  by  blockheads.  Gradually, 
through  strikes,  violence,  threats,  through  an  unrest  which 
was  bad  for  business,  the  workers  gained  an  extension  of  the 
suffrage.     The  majority  had  the  vote. 

Popular  suffrage  does  not  end  group  struggles,  but  merely 
lifts  them  to  a  higher  plane.  A  minority  which  has  long 
ruled  by  its  own  right  soon  learns  to  rule  as  the  theoretical 
representative  of  the  majority.  Certain  forms  of  economic 
and  intellectual  pressure  may  make  universal  suffrage  harm- 
less to  the  minority. 

Back  of  all  political  institutions,  although  themselves 
important,  lie  always  the  essential  status  and  character  of 
the  population,  its  wealth,  intelligence,  coherence,  and  tradi- 
tions, and  the  essential  character  of  the  dominating  group. 
Through  industrial  changes,  through  political  battles, 
through,  above  all,  an  intellectual  war  a  outrance,  the  great 
changes  in  the  balance  of  power  within  the  community  take 
place. 

The  vast  social  wealth,  however,  which  went  on  accumu- 
lating in  a  geometrical  ratio  during  more  than  a  century, 
not  only  now  makes  democracy  possible,  by  providing 
the  wherewithal,  but  it  also  furnishes  the  weapon  with 
which  the  democracy  may  be  attained.  That  weapon 
is  a  moral  idea.     The  possession  by  society  of  a  great 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  197 

wealth  invests  the  desire  of  the  people  for  a  fuller  life  with 
an  ethical  sanction.  Society  can  no  longer  interpose  a  non 
possumus. 

The  increasing  social  wealth  shifts  the  basis  of  social 
morality  from  a  mere  war  ethics,  from  the  old  tribal  instinct 
of  group  survival,  to  a  new  ethics  which  demands  a  full  life 
for  all  members  of  t  society.  Just  as,  during  the  last  few 
millenniums,  we  have  evolved  a  theory  of  the  sanctity  of 
human  life,  by  which  the  saving  of  life  becomes  theoretically 
more  important  than  even  the  saving  of  property  (although 
the  facts  often  flatly  contradict  this  assumption),  so  to-day 
we  are  developing  a  theory  of  the  dignity  of  human  life,  by 
which  society,  because  of  its  greater  wealth,  becomes  morally 
responsible,  not  only  for  the  mere  physical  survival  of  the 
individual,  but  equally  for  the  provision  of  facilities  by  which 
the  highest  physical,  intellectual,  moral,  and  social  capacities 
of  all  citizens,  born  and  to  be  born,  may  best  be  secured. 
The  old  morality,  it  is  true,  still  survives.  The  clash  be- 
tween the  old  and  the  new  is  seen  in  the  struggle  between 
imperialism  and  industrial  democracy,  between  battleships 
and  libraries,  between  the  old  poverty  ethics  of  survival  and 
the  new  wealth  ethics  of  social  improvement. 

The  motive  force  of  our  modern  ethics  of  social  improve- 
ment reveals  itself  in  a  sense  of  disequilibrium  between  so- 
cial wealth  and  a  residual  misery  of  large  sections  of  the 
population.  Two  centuries  ago,  when  population  still 
pressed  narrowly  upon  wealth,  statesmen  could  look  cal- 
lously upon  starvation,  imprisonment  for  debt,  and  the 
hanging  of  vulgar  rogues  who  stole  a  shilling  and  a  penny. 
If  fifty  per  cent  and,  in  some  years,  seventy-five  per  cent 
of  London  babies  died  in  the  year,  were  there  not  too  many 
people  anyway?  But  to-day  our  surplus  has  made  us  as 
sensitive  to  misery,  preventable  death,  sickness,  hunger, 
and  deprivation  as  is  a  photographic  plate  to  light.  The 
disequilibrium   between   social   surplus   and   social  misery 


\ 


198  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

colors  all  our  thoughts.  It  is  the  basis  of  our  social  unrest. 
It  causes  the  stirrings  of  uneasy  social  consciences. 

It  is  also  responsible  for  a  more  sober  and  searching  social 
analysis.  A  salient  fact  about  our  modern  social  thinking 
is  that  we  no  longer  so  light-heartedly  attribute  to  a  personal 
delinquency  the  residual,  persistent  poverty  of  great  masses 
of  the  population.  We  no  longer  so  often  hear  the  dictum 
that  any  one  who  wants  a  job  can  get  one ;  that  no  man  need 
be  idle ;  that  all  men  can  save  against  the  rainy  day,  when 
they  may  be  injured  by  industrial  accident  or  discharged 
because  of  middle  age.  We  have  become  more  temperate 
in  our  social  judgments  and  our  social  admonitions.  The 
beautiful  industrial  idyls  of  half  a  century  ago,  the  charm- 
ing inculcation  of  thrift  to  the  desperately  poor,  the  stories  of 
the  astounding  progress  of  the  newsboy  and  the  grocer's  clerk 
(who  inevitably  marries  the  daughter  of  his  employer),  have 
given  way  to  somber  investigations  of  the  real  conditions  of 
newsboys,  messenger  boys,  grocers'  clerks,  et  al.,  and  to  a  very 
wide  bookshelf  on  the  influence  of  evil  industrial  conditions 
upon  the  virtues  and  vices  of  the  industrial  classes. 

The  disequilibrium  between  social  surplus  and  social 
misery  is  weighing  like  a  great  moral  incubus  upon  thousands 
of  the  beneficiaries  of  present  arrangements.  To-day  there 
are  many  rich  men  who  lie  awake  nights,  and  not  through 
fear.  These  men  are  not  bound  by  narrow  class  ethics,  but 
echo  distinctly  the  moral  feelings  of  the  mass,  from  which 
they  have  so  recently  risen,  as  a  man  on  the  fringe  of  a  crowd 
may  still  be  subject  to  its  radiated  will.  The  philanthropist 
(the  rich  man  with  a  conscience)  speaks  of  social  "  mal- 
adjustment" and  strives  for  " social  betterment."  Such  a 
man,  far  from  desiring  the  impoverishment  and  brutalization 
of  the  mass  (were  that  now  possible),  is  compelled  by  an 
ethical  imperative  to  demand,  in  the  interest  of  the  general 
community,  reforms  by  no  means  in  harmony  with  the  special 
interests  of  favored  classes. 


vol 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE   SOCIAL  SURPLUS  199 

Upon  the  wide  democratic  masses,  the  social  disequilibrium 
exercises  a  far  more  direct  and  potent  influence.  With 
these  classes,  the  theory  that  social  wealth  should  be  de- 
voted to  social  uses  —  in  ways  to  be  determined  by  society 

becomes  axiomatic.  It  becomes  a  fixed  idea.  This 
impelling  idea  is  all-conquering.  By  creating  this  idea, 
the  growth  of  the  social  surplus  lends  to  the  democratic 
masses  a  vast  new  impetus  to  action. 

For,  fundamentally,  it  is  ideas,  born  of  conditions,  which 
rule  the  world.  Without  an  idea  to  back  it,  force  is  not 
permanently  effective.  Without  an  idea,  men  will  not 
risk  their  lives  or  fortunes,  will  not  take  off  their  easy  slip- 
pers and  comfortable  smoking  jackets,  will  not  spend  long 
evenings  on  dreary  committees.  The  idea  which  animates 
a  great  group,  which  holds  it  together  in  defeat  and  delay, 
is  something  different  from  the  sudden,  angry  mob  spirit. 
Ideas  are  mortal.  They  are  vulnerable  to  argument.  If  a 
popular  idea  therefore  survives  in  the  struggle  of  all  ideas 
for  the  possession  of  men's  minds,  if  it  survives  to  be  effective 
and  to  leaven  the  mass,  it  is  only  because  it  closely  corre- 
sponds, not  perhaps  to  social  facts,  but  to  social  needs  and 
aspirations.  Such  an  idea,  slowly  formed  in  the  minds 
of  millions  by  the  deposition  of  myriads  of  impressions, 
slowly  hardened  by  resistance  to  other  ideas  and  molded 
by  'adjustment  to  new  facts,  gradually  accumulates  suffi- 
cient force  to  arouse  multitudes  and  to  convert  them  to  a 
flaming  ideal.  What  incites  every  manifestation  of  social 
power  is  this  idea,  bred  of  social  conditions  and  social 
needs. 

This  idea  of  the  social  disequilibrium  is  a  conception 
based  on  actuality  and  corresponding  to  the  needs  of  the  most 
numerous  and  potentially  most  powerful  elements  of  the 
community.  It  is  the  instinct  of  a  fuller  fife  for  the  mass. 
It  is  a  turning  of  the  people  to  the  great  social  surplus,  a 
movement  as  spontaneous  and  resistless  as  the  advance  of  a 


200  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

hungry  horde  upon  a  fertile,  life-giving  plain.  It  is  a  new 
version  of  the  life-old  quest  of  food. 

To-day  a  progressive,  though  slow,  diffusion  of  wealth 
already  gives  to  all  a  foretaste  of  the  civilized  life  which 

<it  can  create.  Once  the  givin^-of  breacLand  fishes  to  the 
multitude  was  a  miracle,  for  there  were  in  all  the  world 
not  bread  enough  and  fishes  enough  to  go  around.  To-day 
food  and  material  and  moral  goods  for  all  being  provided,  a 
fairer  distribution  has  become  an  imperative  ethical  demand. 
Out  of  the  ever-growing  disproportion  between  social 
surplus  and  social  misery,  there  evolves  the  doctrine  of 
exploitation,  a  doctrine  as  yet  vague  and  illogical,  but 
slowly  crystallizing  into  a  sentiment  which  identifies  social 
injustice  with  excessive  claims  upon  the  surplus. 

About  this  demand  for  a  full  fife  for  all  the  people  cluster 
a  host  of  ethical  ideas  —  clear  or  confused.  The  right  of  the 
laborer  to  the  entire  product  of  labor;  the  right  of  the 
community  to  the  social  value  created  by  the  community  — 
to  the  unearned  increment;  the  belief  in  society  as  the 
ultimate  inventor  of  all  inventions  and  the  ultimate  designer 
of  all  improvements, — are  all  by-products  of  the  hopes  excited 
by  the  social  surplus.  The  possibility  of  giving  a  full  life  to 
all  the  people  has  remolded  our  religion,  changed  the  basis 
of  our  ethics,  and  revolutionized  our  historical  conceptions. 
It  has  put  down  the  mighty  " great  man,"  who  once  obsessed 
history,  and  has  exalted  those  of  low  degree,  the  unnamed 
multitude.  It  has  caused  the  individual  to  shrink;  it  has 
wonderfully  expanded  the  hitherto  dumb  crowd.  It  is 
gradually  destroying  all  ideals  of  prerogative  and  privilege, 
God-given,  law-given,  wealth-given,  and  is  reducing  all  in- 
equalities to  the  one  inequality  of  heredity.  It  has  shifted 
the  burden  of  proof  to  the  shoulders  of  those  who  are  satis- 
fied with  present  social  conditions. 

The  gradually  increasing  share  of  the  people  in  the  social 
surplus  has  not  only  strengthened  these  conceptions  (since 


I  m 
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ar 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  201 

the  appetite  for  life  grows  with  the  larger  life  it  feeds  on),  but 
it  gives  to  the  success  of  the  popular  struggle  for  the  rest 
of  the  surplus  a  certain  sense  of  inevitableness.  The  funda- 
mental belief  in  the  ultimate  success  of  the  people  rests  in 
final  analysis  upon  the  success  hitherto  attained.  The 
economic  determinism  which  makes  laws,  ethics,  political 
institutions,  and  social  theories  largely  the  reflex  of  changing 
economic  conditions  seems  itself  to  be  a  reflex  of  the  past  suc- 
cess of  the  mass  in  securing  a  larger  share  of  the  surplus.  Since 
the  masses  have  grown  in  wealth,  they  have  become  confident 
of  ultimate  victory.  The  best  augury  of  the  coming  democ- 
racy is  its  first  fruits. 

To  America  this  social  surplus  promises  more  than  to  other 
nations.  Never  in  history  has  there  been  a  social  surplus 
equal  to  that  of  America  to-day,  or  at  all  comparable  with 
the  surplus  which  the  still  undeveloped  resources  of  the 
scarred  continent  are  to  bring  forth.  Of  all  the  children 
of  the  Industrial  Revolution,  America  —  one  of  the  youngest 
—  is  the  most  favored.1 

This  incomparable  wealth  present,  and  above  all  prospec- 
tive, gives  to  the  democratic  movement  in  this  country  a  tone 
different  from  that  of  England,  Germany,  France,  or  Belgium. 
It  makes  our  past  blunders  seem  mere  youthful  pranks.  It 
makes  us  preeminently  the  heirs  of  science  and  invention. 
Science,  more  mobile  even  than  money,  goes  where  money  is  ; 
nd  America,  because  her  wealth  is  greater,  profits  in  greater 
measure  than  other  nations  from  the  inventions  of  those 
nations. 

It  is  our  future  wealth,  due  to  the  fact  that  we  still  occupy 
a  continent,  preempted  but  still  fertile,  that  enlarges  our 

1  England,  which  is  the  great  creditor  nation  of  the  world,  has  a  larger 
per  capita  wealth  than  has  the  United  States,  but  its  total  wealth  (or  that 
of  the  United  Kingdom)  is  much  less  than  that  of  this  country.  In  Amer- 
ica, moreover,  wealth  is  increasing  far  more  rapidly,  both  relatively  and 
absolutely,  than  elsewhere. 


202  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

hopes.  Under  a  perfect  system  of  production  and  distribu- 
tion, the  average  Italian  would  not  be  so  well  off  as  is  to-day 
the  average  American  under  our  most  imperfect  system.1 
The  bitterness  of  group  struggles  in  Belgium,  Italy,  Austria, 
is  born  of  their  relative  poverty.  In  those  lands  intelligence 
and  energy  constantly  push  forward  their  frontiers  —  but, 
at  best,  they  are  not  continents.2 

There  are  exalted  and  impatient  souls  who  pay  no  heed 
to  tales  of  mere  material  progress.  They  believe  that  the 
geniuses  —  the  Shakespeares,  Beethovens,  Botticellis,  Kants, 
Darwins  —  do  not  arise  in  the  pork-and-pig-iron-producing 
nations ;  that  a  full  belly  means  an  empty  mind ;  and  that 
they  who  wax  fat  kick  against  the  Lord.*  They  are  willing, 
with  Renan,  to  give  up  America  and  all  her  future  for 
medieval  Florence ;  and,  like  Carlyle,  they  have  no  patience 
with  a  boundless  land,  which  produces  only  dollars  and 
bores.  In  the  eyes  of  such  men  America's  wealth  is  her 
weakness. 

Nevertheless  a  palpable  nexus  exists  between  a  modicum 
of  national  wealth  and  the  elements  of  democracy  and 
civilization.  Intellectual  and  moral  progress  cost  money  as 
do  steam  engines  and  Dreadnoughts.  Money  —  though 
only  a  part  —  is  necessary  for  education,  sanitation,  leisure, 
and  the  amenities  of  life;  for  schools,  universities,  libra- 


1  According  to  the  estimate  of  Pantaleoni,  made  in  1889,  the  wealth  of 
Italy  was  55  milliards  of  francs  (less  than  eleven  thousand  million  dollars). 
In  1902  Nitti  estimated  this  wealth  as  being  not  less  than  65  milliards, 
"troppo  poco  senza  dubbio"  for  a  country  of  about  thirty-three  million 
inhabitants.  Nitti,  Francesco  S.,  "Lezioni  di  Scienza  delle  Finalize," 
Naples,  1902,  pp.  110,  111. 

2  That  America  is  so  wealthy  in  prospect  is  due  to  no  inherent  superiority 
of  Americans.  We  cannot  claim  exceptional  virtues,  marking  us  off  from 
less  favored  breeds.  We  had  the  one  virtue  of  adapting  ourselves  —  for 
better  and  for  worse  —  to  an  entirely  new  environment,  but  what  we  have 
accomplished  must  be  attributed  primarily  to  that  favoring  environment. 
A  vigorous,  intelligent,  and  enterprising  people  (of  which  there  are  many) 
found  itself  in  surprised  possession  of  almost  illimitable  resources. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  203 

ries,  research  institutes,  art  galleries,  hospitals,  museums, 
theaters,  conservatories,  magazines,  books,  parks,  improved 
houses,  better  factories,  clothing,  shelter,  recreation,  and 
the  endowment  and  production  of  what  is  good  and  worth 
while.  Eight  hundred  million  dollars  intelligently  spent  on 
education  is  better  than  four  hundred  millions.  The  growth 
of  two  bales  of  cotton,  or  two  bushels  of  wheat,  where  one 
grew  before,  may  make  the  difference  between  a  besotted, 
superstitious,  and  reactionary  people  and  an  intelligent, 
cultured,  and  progressive  people.  Until  the  material  prob- 
lems which  beset  mankind  are  solved ;  until  misery,  disease, 
crime,  insanity,  drunkenness,  degeneration,  ignorance,  and 
greed  —  which  are  the  offspring  (as  also  the  parents)  of 
poverty  —  are  removed  (and  their  removal  costs  money), 
humanity  will  not  be  able  to  essay  the  problems  of  mind  and 
of  social  intercourse.  Our  chance  in  America  of  an  even- 
tual civilization  rising  above  the  demand  for  daily  bread  and 
more  money  depends  upon  our  wise  utilization  of  our 
national  resources  and  our  national  earnings.  However 
spiritual  a  structure  civilization  is,  it  is  nevertheless  built 
upon  wheat,  pork,  steel,  money,  wealth. 

Our  wealth  is  already  so  gigantic  as  to  be  almost  incom- 
prehensible. A  billion  dollars  exceeds  the  fortune  of  any 
individual  since  the  world  began.  It  is  like  a  " light-year" 
or  some  other  convenient  but  unimaginable  astronomical 
term.  Yet  in  1904  our  national  wealth  was  estimated  by 
the  census  authorities  at  107  of  these  billions  of  dollars. 
The  present  estimated  wealth  of  New  York  State  is  twice  the 
entire  estimated  wealth  of  the  United  States  in  1850.  We 
would  sell  under  the  hammer  for  fifteen  times  as  much  as 
we  would  have  done  a  little  over  half  a  century  ago.1 

1  This  comparison  is,  of  course,  only  rudely  approximate.  The  pos- 
sessions enumerated  by  the  census  are  actual  material  things  (property, 
not  deeds,  mortgages,  or  paper  evidence  of  ownership).  But  the  conception 
of  property  changes.  Valuable  slaves  in  1860  ceased  to  be  property  in  1865, 
and  forms  of  wealth  exist  in  1911  which  did  not  exist  in  1850.     Moreover, 


204  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  wealth  of  America,  moreover,  is  not  a  secret  hoard 
to  which  new  billions  are  brought  and  added.  It  is  a  living 
thing,  which  grows  at  a  stupendous  rate  as  new  millions  of 
men  pour  into  the  land,  and  new  machines,  new  scientific 
processes,  new  methods  of  organization,  lay  the  continent 
wider  open.  From  1870  to  1900  our  wealth  increased  at  the 
rate  of  almost  two  billions  a  year;  from  1900  to  1904  it 
recorded  an  apparent  increase  of  almost  five  billions  a  year. 
During  every  eighteen  months  of  those  four  years  there 
was  added  to  our  possessions  an  increment  greater  than 
the  whole  estimated  wealth  of  the  country  in  1850. 

Everywhere  are  signs  of  a  stupendous  productiveness. 
The  number  of  our  horses,  sheep,  mules,  swine  increases; 
our  production  of  wheat,  corn,  cotton,  rice,  has  enormously 
grown.  So  also  our  mineral  production.  In  1840  we 
produced  less  than  two  million  long  tons  of  coal;  in  1909 
we  produced  four  hundred  and  eleven  millions.  The  mere 
increase  in  coal  production  in  1907  over  that  of  the  preceding 
year  was  about  equal  to  the  entire  output  of  all  the  country's 
mines  during  the  eighty-five  years  from  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  to  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War. 

In  1870  we  produced  three  million  long  tons  of  iron  ore ; 
in  1909,  fifty-one  millions.  Our  pig  iron  production,  which 
never  amounted  to  a  million  long  tons  before  1864,  increased 
to  almost  twenty-seven  millions  in  1910.  The  production 
of  steel,  which  remained  below  one  million  tons  until  1880, 
rose  to  twenty-four  millions  in  1909.  Enormously  rapid, 
also,  has  been  the  increase  in  our  output  of  gold,  aluminium, 
cement,  copper,  lead,  salt,  stone,  and  zinc;  while  our  pro- 
duction of  petroleum,  which  averaged  about  a  hundred 
million  gallons  a  year  during  the  Civil  War,  rose  in  1909  to 
over  seven  and  one  half  billions  of  gallons. 

the  standard  of  value  changes  and  money  does  not  go  so  far  to-day  as  when 
Washington  threw  the  silver  dollar  across  the  Potomac.  Nevertheless, 
an  enormous  increase  in  the  real  wealth  of  the  country  is  indisputable. 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  205 

Our  American  agriculture  has  not  only  fed  our  growing 
population,  but  it  still  permits  vast  exportations  of 
grain,  flour,  and  meat  products.  Moreover,  it  has  been 
carried  on  by  a  steadily  lessening  proportion  of  the  capital 
and  labor  of  the  country.  There  has  been  simultaneously 
an  almost  bewildering  increase  in  our  manufacturing  indus- 
tries. 

When  we  try  to  visualize  the  statistics  of  our  American 
railroads,  the  mind  sinks  exhausted  under  the  effort.  The 
traffic  increases  incessantly  and  enormously.  While  our 
population  has  not  quite  doubled  in  thirty-three  years,  our 
railroad  passenger  and  freight  traffics  have  more  than 
doubled  in  nine  years.  In  1909  our  railroad  freight  mileage 
was  equivalent  to  the  work  of  our  ninety-two  millions  of 
inhabitants  carrying  each  a  load  of  over  four  hundred  pounds 
a  distance  of  over  thirty  miles  each  day.  This  enormous 
traffic,  like  the  tremendously  increasing  water  carriage  on 
the  Great  Lakes,  reveals  the  actual  and  potential  power  of 
the  machine-aided  American  nation. 

It  is  figures  like  these,  almost  inconceivable  in  their 
totals,  which  give  to  Americans  their  abiding  sense  in  the 
infinite  potentialities  of  the  continent.  From  the  beginning 
the  continent  poured  forth  new  millions,  and  later  new  billions, 
of  wealth.  An  invention  which  netted  the  discoverer  a  few 
thousands  or  hundreds  of  thousands  brought  to  the  nation 
hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars.  Better  methods,  improved 
machinery,  a  more  scientific  and  effective  organization  of 
industry,  combined  to  increase  our  stupendous  productive- 
ness. Our  national  resources  were  enormously  increased 
by  discoveries  of  new  foods,  by  new  uses  to  which  the  land 
might  be  put. 

So  much  for  the  wonders  of  the  past.  But  they  are 
wonders  only  so  long  as  we  think  solely  in  terms  of  the  past. 
Actually  our  utilization  of  the  continent  has  hardly  begun. 
It  has  hardly  begun  to  begin. 


THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

When  we  regard  the  vast  domain  of  the  United  States  as 
a  business  man  regards  his  plant,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
maximum  possibilities,  we  realize  how  far  we  are  from  a 
reasonable  exploitation  of  our  resources.  Our  total  farm 
production  is  almost  nine  billions  of  dollars  (or  almost 
five  hundred  dollars  for  every  family  in  America),  and  yet 
we  usually  average  less  than  fifteen  bushels  of  wheat  per 
acre  and  less  than  two  fifths  of  a  bale  of  cotton  per  acre. 
We  have  cotton  farmers  planting  the  small  seed,  using  the 
worst  methods,  wasting  the  most  fertile  lands.  When  we 
compare  the  worst,  or  even  the  average,  production  in 
America  (in  agriculture,  mining,  manufacturing,  transporta- 
tion, and  everything  else)  with  the  best ;  when  we  remember 
that  our  present  stupendous  wealth  is  based  upon  an  igno- 
rant, wasteful,  and  inefficient  exploitation  of  resources, — we 
begin  to  arrive  at  some  vague  conception  of  what,  under  a 
proper  social  and  industrial  polity,  could  be  made  of  our 
continent,  of  this  vast  physical  substratum  of  our  hoped- 
for  American  democracy. 

Even  to-day,  with  a  poor  national  economy,  we  do  not  owe 
our  worst  evils  to  any  corporate  poverty.  Even  to-day  we 
could,  with  a  better  distribution,  provide  a  livable  life  for 
many  more  millions  than  our  present  population.  Already 
the  most  stupendous  social  undertakings  are  carried  out 
with  the  greatest  ease.  Our  billion-and-a-half-dollar  Con- 
gresses of  to-day  hardly  cost  us  as  much  as  the  twenty- 
million-dollar  Congresses  cost  the  Americans  of  1810.  A 
century  ago  the  nation  found  it  more  difficult  to  pay  fifteen 
million  dollars  for  Louisiana  than  to-day  to  pay  twenty-five 
times  that  much  for  the  Panama  Canal.  The  more  than  a 
third  of  a  billion  of  dollars  which  that  canal  represents 
about  equals  one  month's  accretion  to  the  national 
wealth. 

A  great  social  surplus,  however,  does  not  mean  that  a 
lemocracy  is  attained,  but  only  that  it  is  attainable.     With- 


sN 


DEMOCRACY  AND  THE  SOCIAL  SURPLUS  207 

out  social  wealth,  a  real  democracy  is  not  possible ;  with  it, 
it  is  not  inevitable. 

The  masses  of  the  people,  if  they  are  to  secure  a  democracy, 
must  not  fall  or  remain  below  the  three  levels  of  democratic 
striving.  Below  the  economic  level  of  democratic  striving, 
men  are  for  the  most  part  too  ill-fed,  ill-clad,  ill-conditioned, 
too  depressed  by  want  or  sickness,  too  harassed  by  debt  or 
insecurity,  too  brutalized  by  child  labor  or  overwork, 
or  too  demoralized  by  recurring  unemployment  to  maintain 
the  morale  required  for  the  attainment  of  democracy.  Below 
the  mtellectual  level  of  democratic  striving,  most  men  are 
too  credulous,  too  suspicious,  too  immersed  in  petty  pre- 
occupations, too  narrow-viewed  to  perceive  their  individual 
interest  in  the  wider  interest  of  group. or  nation,  and  they 
are  too  near-minded  to  value  the  larger  social  gain  of  the 
future  above  the  smaller  social  or  personal  gain  of  the  moment. 
Below  the  political  level  of  democratic  striving,  men  are  too 
unused  to  political~weapons,  or  too  removed  from  them,  to 
be  able  effectively  to  translate  their  economic  and  intellectual 
powers  into  political  facts.  To  achieve  a  real  popularN 
sovereignty,  the  masses  of  the  people  must  rise  or  remain  J 
above  all  of  these  levels.  v/< 

Of  these  three  levels  the  economic  and  the  intellectual     ] 
are  the  more  important,  for  a  voteless  people  with  economic    I 
and  intellectual  resources  can  better  secure  political  repre^/ 
sentation  than  can  an  impoverished  and  ignorant  peoples^ 
in  full  possession  of  political  rights.     All  these  three  levels* 
are  in  a  sense  connected  and  all  are  related  to  the  social 
surplus.     It  is  the  social  surplus  which  permits  the  economic 
advance  of  the  people,  which  in  turn  facilitates  their  intellec- 
tual enfranchisement,  which  in  turn  tends  strongly  in  the 
direction  of  political  representation.     The  lack  of  complete 
parallelism  between  these  three  levels  results  in  many  of  the 
worst  abuses  of  our  pseudo-democratic  government  of  to-day. 
The  possession  of  the  vote  by  ignorant  masses  below  the  / 


r 


208  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

poverty  line  leads  to  sluggish,  reckless,  or  perverse  legislation 
and  seems  to  justify  the  most  hopeful  fears  of  interested 
reactionaries.  But  the  true  remedy  for  these  evils  is  not 
what  the  reactionaries  desire,  a  change  in  the  political  level, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  a  raising  of  the  people  to  a  higher 
economic  and  intellectual  level.  Illiterates  should  not  be 
obliged  to  stay  away  from  the  voting  booth,  but  voters 
should  be  obliged  to  learn  their  letters,  in  much  the  same 
way  that  we  compel  incarcerated  tramps  to  submit  to  an 
initial  bath.  The  parallelism  between  these  three  levels 
should  be  maintained  by  the  steady  rise  of  larger  and 
larger  sections  of  the  people  above  all  three  levels,  to  a 
position  in  which  the  economic,  intellectual,  and  political 
weapons  of  the  people  may  be  effectively  used  in  their 

mmon  interest. 

Thus,  though  the  accumulations  of  the  great  industrial 
nations  render  democracy  possible,  and  furnish  a  stake, 
motive,  and  ethical  justification  to  democrats ;  though  in 
America  this  social  wealth  is  so  stupendously  growing  as  to 
place,  beyond  even  the  possibility  of  doubt,  our  ability,  present 
and  future,  to  pay  for  such  a  democracy,  —  still,  whether  or 
not  we  shall  achieve  democracy  depends  upon  these  other 
factors,  upon  the  character  of  our  population,  upon  its 
mean  position  above  or  below  the  levels  of  democratic 
striving.  Given  the  energizing  moral  impulse  of  the  startling 
disequilibrium  between  our  social  wealth  and  our  abiding 
poverty,  it  is  still  essential  that  the  mass  of  the  population 
have  sufficient  wealth  or  income,  sufficient  intelligence  and 
clearness  of  perception,  sufficient  political  power,  political 
experience,  and  political  wisdom  (as  well  as  a  high  enough 
capacity  for  joint  action),  to  permit  them  unitedly  to  do  their 
part  in  wresting  a  democracy  from  men  who  have  an  inter- 
ested attachment  to  present  conditions.  The  attainment  of 
democracy  depends  upon  the  all-of-us,  upon  the  qualities 
and  resources  of  the  potentially  overwhelming  democratic 
masses. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   LEVELS   OF  DEMOCRATIC   STRIVING 

IT  is  difficult  to  translate  the  ecojiojgjifijevel  of  demo- 
cratic striving  from  the  field  6Y  theory  to*  the  field  of 
practice.  It  is  difficult  to  say  of  any  group  what  sum  of 
wealth  or  what  annual  income  will  divide  its  members  into 
two  sections,  of  which  the  upper  is  likely,  and  the  lower  is 
unlikely,  to  become  a  prime  factor  in  the  attainment  of 
democracy.  Like  the  blurred  line  which  we  seek  to  draw  be- 
tween the  conceptions  of  luxuries  and  necessities,  of  skilled 
labor  and  unskilled  labor,  of  interest  and  usury,  like  many 
other  conceptions  of  economic  science,  that  of  the  level 
which  separates  the  economically  emerged  from  the  economi- 
cally submerged  is  wavering,  indistinct,  changing.  The 
level  is  not  uniform  for  all  countries,  nor  for  all  sections, 
classes,  and  industrial  groups  within  a  country.  It  is  not 
invariable,  but  changes  from  decade  to  decade  with  changes 
in  the  cost  of  living  and  the  cost  of  education  and  communi- 
cation. A  wage  or  income  which  in  a  New  Hampshire  town 
provides  leisure,  education,  and  an  ambitious  discontent  may 
in  New  York  City  compel  a  resort  to  charity,  and  an  income 
which  might  have  sufficed  a  dozen  years  ago  might  to-day 
depress  a  group  below  the  economic  level.  Whether  four 
hundred,  six  hundred,  or  nine  hundred  dollars  a  year  es- 
tablishes the  limit  of  family  earnings,  below  which  economic 
pressure  and  degradation  will  prevent  men  from  taking  a 
wide  view  of  group  and  national  interests,  is  a  question 
depending  upon  a  large  group  of  changing  factors. 

One  thing,  however,  seems  certain.    The  economic  level 
of  democratic  striving  is  above  what  has  been  called  the 
p  209  """ - ~~ 


210  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

" poverty  line."  That  line,  which  may  be  called  the  level 
of  mere  physicial  efficiency,  is  exceedingly  low.  "Let  us 
clearly  understand, "  says  B.  Seebohm  Rowntree,1  in  speak- 
ing of  the  great  masses  of  the  English  poor,  "what  ' merely 
physical  efficiency '  means.  A  family  living  upon  the  scale 
allowed  for  in  this  estimate  must  never  spend  a  penny  on 
railway  fare  or  omnibus.  They  must  never  go  into  the 
country  unless  they  walk.  They  must  never  purchase  a 
halfpenny  newspaper  or  spend  a  penny  to  buy  a  ticket  for 
a  popular  concert.  They  must  write  no  letters  to  absent 
children,  for  they  cannot  afford  to  pay  the  postage.  They 
must  never  contribute  anything  to  their  church  or  chapel,  or 
give  any  help  to  neighbor  which  costs  them  money.  They 
cannot  save,  nor  can  they  join  sick  club  or  Trade  Union, 
because  they  cannot  pay  the  necessary  subscriptions.  The 
children  must  have  no  pocket  money  for  dolls,  marbles,  or 
sweets.  The  father  must  smoke  no  tobacco,  and  must  drink 
no  beer.  The  mother  must  never  buy  any  pretty  clothes  for 
herself  or  for  her  children,  the  character  of  the  family  ward- 
robe as  for  the  family  diet  being  governed  by  the  regulation, 
1  Nothing  must  be  bought  but  that  which  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  maintenance  of  physical  health,  and  what 
is  bought  must  be  of  the  plainest  and  most  economical 
description. '  Should  a  child  fall  ill,  it  must  be  attended 
by  the  parish  doctor;  should  it  die,  it  must  be  buried  by 
the  parish.  Finally,  the  wage  earner  must  never  be  absent 
from  his  work  for  a  single  day." 

Even  above  the  line  of  "merely  physical  efficiency," 
even  above  the  so-called  poverty  line,  the  demoralizing 
effects  of  insufficient  income  affect  large  groups  of  the 
population. 

That  the  average  citizen  is  advancing  in  wealth  and  income 
seems  equally  probable  from  general  observations  and  from 

1  "Poverty.  A  Study  of  Town  Life,"  London  (Macmillan  &  Co.), 
1901,  pp.  133,  134. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  211 

a  study  of  statistics.  It  is  not  contended  that  the  common 
run  of  us  have  as  large  a  proportion  of  the  national  wealth 
as  formerly,  since  a  larger  amount  and  a  larger  proportion 
of  that  wealth  are  being  progressively  absorbed  by  a  rela- 
tively small  minority  of  the  population.  It  is  at  least 
probable,  if  not  certain,  however,  that,  leaving  out  of  account 
this  wealthy  minority,  the  remainder  of  the  ninety-two 
millions  of  Americans  to-day  are  far  more  prosperous  than 
were  the  fifty  millions  of  1880,  the  twenty-three  millions 
of  1850,  or  the  five  millions  of  1800.  No  one  can  travel 
through  the  country  districts  of  America,  or  through  the 
streets  of  our  cities,  without  noting  evidences  of  a  widespread 
prosperity,  small  when  compared  with  realizable  ideals,  but 
enormous  when  compared  with  that  of  the  average  English- 
man, Frenchman,  German,  or  Italian,  or  with  that  of  the 
average  American  of  a  generation,  or  two,  or  three  ago. 

The  farmer  has  undoubtedly  improved  his  status.  It 
must  be  remembered,  of  course,  that  the  farmer  is  a  composite, 
not  a  simple  type,  and  that  there  is  as  wide  a  distinction 
between  the  economic  status  of  farmers  and  of  farmers  as 
there  is  between  that  of  lawyers  and  of  lawyers.  The  Negro 
tenant  of  Mississippi  has  as  little  in  common  with  the  large 
dairy  farmer  of  Iowa  as  the  small  proprietor  in  the  Catskills 
or  Berkshires  has  with  the  ranch  owner  of  Texas  or  the  fruit 
grower  of  Southern  California.  Not  all  farming  districts 
started  equally,  and  not  all  have  progressed  equally. 

The  better  farms  of  to-day  are  far  better  than  were  those 
of  1860.  The  farmhouses,  barns,  stock,  and  farm  imple- 
ments are  improved.  The  food  on  the  farmer's  table,  the 
carpet  on  his  floor,  the  curtains  in  his  window,  the  pictures 
on  his  walls,  the  books  and  magazines  on  his  shelf,  everything 
which  he  eats,  wears,  or  lives  in,  show  a  change.  Labor- 
saving  devices  enter  his  house  and  farm.  His  school 
is  better.  Often  a  trolley  car  passes  his  door.  The  rural 
free  delivery  brings  him  into  touch  with  the  thought  and 


212  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

business  life  of  the  city,  while  the  rural  telephone  connects 
him  with  the  farmers  of  the  vicinity.  What  the  farmer  buys 
—  furniture,  ornaments,  carriages,  bicycles,  occasionally 
even  automobiles  —  as  well  as  the  enormous  exodus  from  the 
farm  to  the  State  university,  indicates  a  revolutionary  rise  in 
standards  of  living.  The  farmer's  savings  in  banks  and 
insurance  companies,  his  investments  in  village  business 
enterprises  and  in  the  capital  of  local  banks,  show  plainly 
that  he  is  emerging  from  his  former  money  poverty.  He  is 
changing  otherwise.  The  typical  farmer  of  caricature  — 
the  credulous,  inquisitive,  hard-fisted,  straw-chewing  hay- 
seed —  disappears.  The  farmer  who  visits  Chicago  is  not 
distinguishable  among  its  citizens.  The  farmer  is  no  longer 
isolated.  He  is  not  a  serf  attached  by  habit  and  poverty  to 
his  land.  The  farmer  of  to-day  has  one  foot  in  the 
city.1 

A  similar  rise  in  the  standard  of  living  in  the  cities   is 

\4  revealed  by  general  visual  impressions.     The  citizens,  as 

l^^v judged  by  their   clothes,  shoes,  gloves,  underwear,  houses, 

r\    bathtubs,  recreation,  travel,  and  a  hundred  other  everyday 

things,  are  better  off.     The  shops  patronized  by  the  poorer 

classes  have  a  greater  variety  and  a  better  quality  of  wares. 

The  cities,  with  few  exceptions,  have  rapidly  expanded,  and 

cheap  new  houses  have  arisen  everywhere.     The  housing 

conditions  of  Philadelphians,  Chicagoans,  and  Bostonians  are 

hardly  to  be  compared  with  the  far  inferior  accommodations 

of   a   generation   ago.     Gas,   electricity,  gas  ranges,   more 

rooms,  better  furniture,  and  more  sanitary  toilet  accommoda- 

1  Our  agriculturalists,  during  the  three  centuries  of  white  settlement  in 
America,  always  maintained  a  certain  level  of  rude  comfort,  having  ample 
wheat  bread,  corn,  pork,  milk,  butter,  chickens,  eggs,  firewood,  and  home- 
spun clothing.  For  the  greater  part  of  our  national  existence  our  farmers, 
who  lived  not  far  differently  from  their  laborers,  and,  in  certain  portions 
of  the  Southern  frontier,  not  far  differently  from  their  slaves,  secured  by 
much  labor  ample  quantities  of  coarse  food  and  such  necessaries  and  com- 
forts as  could  be  made  on  the  farm  or  bought  in  the  up-growing  cities. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  213 

tions  evidence  a  complete  revolution  in  standards.  The 
food  of  working  people  has  improved  in  quality,  increased  in 
quantity,  and  been  extended  in  variety.  An  increase  is 
shown  in  the  quantity,  quality,  and  variety  of  the  clothing, 
furniture,  and  similar  articles  of  use.  The  old  joke  about 
the  maidservant  outdressing  her  mistress  has  almost 
ceased  to  be  a  joke  and  become  a  social  phenomenon.  No- 
where in  the  world  is  there  so  lavish  (and  often  so  mis- 
directed and  perverse)  an  expenditure  upon  clothing,  food, 
furniture,  etc.,  as  in  the  United  States  to-day. 

The  enormous  expansion  in  the  use  of  electric  cars,  tele- 
phones, tobacco,  beer,  coffee,  sugar,  fresh  fruits,  fresh 
vegetables,  canned  goods,  etc.,  indicates  this  change.  There 
is  much  waste.  Men  and  women  are  to-day  breaking  and 
wasting  in  kitchen  and  drawing-room  with  the  insane  dis- 
proportionate lavishness  of  the  pioneer  who  slashed  and 
burned  and  wasted  in  the  wilderness.  We  buy  more  for 
display  and  less  for  solid  comfort  than  ever  before.  Never- 
theless our  new  standards  of  living  show  not  only  present 
prosperity,  but  also  (because  of  the  weight  which  wealth 
gives  to  numbers)  the  potentiality  of  a  still  better  life  for 
the  million.1 

Fortunately  we   are  not   dependent   upon  mere  visual 
impressions   for   our   belief   that   the    material    power    of 
the  mass  of  Americans  is  on  the  increase.     Our  statistics^ 
point   the  same  way.     They  throw  at  least   a  reflected  I 
light    upon    wealth,    wages,    savings,    and    standards    of  I 
living.  — — 

That  the  wealth  of  the  farming  population  is  widely 
diffused  may  be  gathered  from  a  consideration  of  the  statistics 
of  the  value  and  size  of  farms.  From  1850  to  1900  the  value 
of  farm  property  increased  415  per  cent  as  compared  with 

1  A  succession  of  foreign  observers  visiting  America  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  working  classes  in  America  are  as  well  fed,  as  well 
clothed,  and  as  well  housed  as  are  the  lower  middle  classes  of  Europe. 


214  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

an  increase  of  226  per  cent  in  population  and  of  149  per  cent 
in  rural  population.1  The  value  of  farms  and  farm  property 
(including  cash  and  sundry  live  capital  in  the  hands  of  farm- 
ers) amounted  in  1905  to  a  total  of  twenty-seven  and  a  half 
billions  of  dollars,  a  huge  capital  which,  though  not  evenly 
distributed,  represents  a  decentralized  and  widely  owned 
industry,  with  a  large  annual  surplus,  owned  and  secured  by 
large  sections  of  the  community. 

It  is  of  course  true  that  we  have  great  farms.  But 
our  estates  of  over  one  thousand  acres  formed  in  1900 
less  than  8  per  cent  of  the  value  of  all  farm  prop- 
erty, while  over  86  per  cent  of  the  value  of  American 
farms  were  in  properties  of  less  than  five  hundred  acres, 
and  over  71  per  cent  in  farms  of  less  than  two  hundred  and 
sixty  acres.2  Despite  the  fact  that  the  great  American  farm, 
with  its  841,000,000  acres  (in  1900),  has  always  been  the  goose 
that  laid  the  golden  egg  (which  golden  egg  has  rolled  off  to 
the  city,  instead  of  waiting  on  the  farm  to  be  assessed  by  the 
census  enumerator),  the  increase  in  the  value  of  farms  held 
outright  by  the  cultivator  or  his  neighbor  has  increased 
enormously.  In  1900  there  were  5,700,000  farms  (not  farm 
owners)  worth  an  average  of  $3550  per  farm.  An  enormous 
majority  of  these  farms  were  valued  at  from  $1000  to 
$8000. 

t  is  scarcely  possible  within  the  limits  of  a  chapter  to 
indicate  (to  say  nothing  of  proving)  the  great  material  prog- 
ress of  the  mass  of  the  population.  Our  farm  statistics 
show  that  our  distribution  of  wealth  and  income  is  not  as 
grotesquely  unequal  as  many  writers  claim,  nor  as  unequal 


1  A  part  of  this  increased  value  is  probably  to  be  accounted  for  by 
changes  in  the  value  of  money. 

2  In  1900  our  5,211,842  farms  of  less  than  two  hundred  and  sixty  acres 
had  an  average  value  of  a  little  over  $2800,  while  all  farms  of  two  hundred 
and  sixty  acres  and  over  had  an  average  value  of  a  little  over  eleven  thou- 
sand dollars.  For  the  basis  of  these  calculations,  see  Twelfth  Census  of 
the  United  States,  Volume  V. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  215 

as  in  several  countries  of  Europe.  Our  wage  statistics  show 
a  level  of  industrial  remuneration  greatly  in  excess  of  that 
in  any  country  of  Europe,  and  still  rising,  though  at  a 
slackened  rate. 

It  is  exceedingly  difficult  to  give  in  statistical  form  the 
difference  between  wages  in  America  and  Europe.  Real 
wages  depend  not  only  upon  what  is  in  the  weekly  pay 
envelope,  but  also  upon  the  prices  of  ordinary  articles  of 
consumption,  upon  the  amount  of  seasonal  interruption  and 
of  unemployment  for  other  causes,  upon  the  length  of  the 
trade  life,  upon  the  provision  of  governmental  insurance, 
and  upon  other  factors.  The  real  difference  in  favor  of  the 
American  workman  is  less  than  the  apparent  difference. 
The  weekly  wages  of  bricklayers  in  American  cities  is  from 
two  and  a  half  to  three  times  the  wages  of  bricklayers  in  the 
cities  of  the  United  Kingdom,  but  the  actual  superiority  of 
the  American  bricklayers  is  smaller.  From  various  official 
reports  and  analyses  of  wages  in  the  United  States,  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  Germany,  however,  it  would  appear  that, 
all  deductions  made,  there  remains  a  substantial  advan- 
tage to  the  American  workingman,  an  advantage  which,  for 
the  chief  trades,  cannot  be  estimated  at  less  than  from 
50  to  80  per  cent.  In  other  words,  were  the  English  or 
German  workman  to  earn  American  wages  and  pay 
American  prices  for  articles  and  services  generally  similar 
to  those  which  he  now  consumes,  he  would  be  able  to  save 
an  amount  equal  to  from  50  to  80  per  cent  of  his  present 
wages. 
y/^There  are  many  outstanding  facts  which  point  to  the 
/superior  economic  status  of  the  workman  in  America.  One 
of  these  is  our  enormous  and  increasing  immigration,  although 
it  must  here  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  source  of  our  immigra- 
tion has  shifted  from  countries  with  higher,  to  countries  with 
lower,  scales  of  industrial  remuneration.  Another,  though 
a  less  distinct,  indication  is  afforded  by  our  far  smaller  use 


216  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

of  the  labor  of  women,  and  especially  of  married  women,  than 
is  made  in  other  industrial  countries.1  A  third  indication  is 
found  in  the  relative  wages  of  certain  groups,  —  the  wages  of 
agricultural  laborers,  of  clerks,  of  women  generally,  of  do- 
mestic servants,  etc. 

If  we  fix  our  eyes  neither  upon  the  advance  scouts  nor  upon 
the  stragglers  in  the  industrial  army,  but  upon  the  rank  and 
file,  we  find,  despite  a  constant  immigration  of  workers  from 
countries  upon  a  lower  economic  level,  a  general  status  far 
above  that  of  the  leading  industrial  nations  of  Europe. 
This  better  condition  is  revealed  in  the  consumption  of 
wealth.  "The  American  (workman),"  writes  an  English 
observer,  "having  the  control  of  a  larger  income,  has  de- 
veloped a  wider  range  of  tastes  and  wants.  ...  He  dresses 
better,  eats  more  varied  and  expensive  food,  travels  more,  and 
reads  more." 

When  we  consider  not  only  the  urban  worker,  but  the  great 
masses  of  the  community  with  average  or  small  incomes,  our 
statistics  of  consumption  acquire  a  new  relevance.  When 
we  endeavor  to  see  who  actually  consumes  our  annual  pro- 
duction of  goods  and  services,  we  are  reenforced  in  our  belief 

1  In  the  United  States  the  proportion  of  gainfully  employed  females 
to  the  whole  number  of  persons  gainfully  employed  was  18.20  per  cent. 
In  France  (1901)  the  proportion  was  34.52  per  cent ;  in  Germany  (1907), 
33.79  per  cent;  in  Austria  (1900),  42.18;  in  Hungary  (1900),  29.68  per 
cent;  in  Italy  (1901),  32.47  per  cent;  in  Belgium  (1900),  29.20  per  cent. 
See  the  Fourth  Abstract  of  Foreign  Labor  Statistics,  Board  of  Trade 
(U.  K.),  London,  1911,  on  pages  4  and  5  of  which  is  given  a  statement  of 
the  original  German,  French,  Austrian,  Hungarian,  Belgian,  Italian,  and 
American  sources  from  which  these  comparative  results  have  been  ob- 
tained. The  value  of  the  comparison  is  conditioned  by  the  fact  that  the 
various  statistical  authorities  do  not  exactly  agree  in  determining  the 
meaning  of  gainful  employment.  A  comparison  of  the  relative  numbers 
of  men  and  women  employed  respectively  in  the  United  States  and  in 
Great  Britain  in  a  number  of  trades,  cotton  manufactures,  wool  and 
worsted,  carpets,  tailoring,  etc.,  bears  out  the  same  relation.  In  1901, 
29.07  per  cent  of  all  persons  gainfully  employed  in  the  United  Kingdom 
were  females. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  217 

as  to  the  overwhelming  aggregate  economic  power  of  the  great 
mass  of  the  population. 

For  whose  benefit,  for  whose  ultimate  consumption,  is  our 
vast  annual  production? 

In  the  year  1909,  according  to  the  estimate  of  the  United 
States  Department  of  Agriculture,  we  had  a  wealth  produc- 
tion upon  our  farms  of  eight  and  three  quarter  billions  of 
dollars,  or  of  almost  five  hundred  dollars  for  every  American 
family.  Disregarding  articles  exported  (and  duplications), 
who  ate  the  wheat,  the  corn,  the  oats,  the  potatoes,  the  sugar, 
the  milk,  the  butter,  the  cheese,  the  chickens?  Who  con- 
sumed the  cotton,  hay,  tobacco?  The  production  of  food 
is  almost  entirely  a  production  for  the  great  mass.  Olives, 
pates  de  foie  gras,  champagne,  do  not  weigh  in  the  balance 
with  bread  and  sausage  and  pork.  We  hear  occasionally 
of  a  fifty-dollar-a-plate  dinner.  We  hear  less  often  of  the 
250,000,000  simpler  meals  which  are  taken  daily  in  the  United 
States. 

The  same  is  true  of  our  manufactured  articles.  In  1905 
we  produced  roughly  $320,000,000  worth  of  boots  and  shoes 
and  $70,000,000  of  rubber  boots  and  shoes.  How  many  of 
these  did  the  rich  consume  ?  Who  ate  $270,000,000  worth 
of  bakers'  bread  ?  Who  ate  those  five  billion  loaves  ?  Who 
consumed  the  $78,000,000  of  canned  goods,  the  $602,000,000 
of  men's  and  women's  clothing ;  the  $450,000,000  of  cotton 
goods;  the  $713,000,000  of  flour  and  grist  mill  products; 
the  $298,000,000  of  malt  liquors;  the  $801,000,000  of 
slaughtering  and  meat  packing  (wholesale)  the  $277,000,000 
of  sugar  and  molasses?  Who  consumed  the  lumber,  the 
paper,  the  glass,  the  hardware,  the  hats,  the  leather  goods, 
the  linen,  the  marble,  the  oil,  the  lead  pencils  ?  Who  ate  the 
$29,000,000  of  pickles  ?  or  smoked  the  $331,000,000  of  tobacco, 
cigars,  and  cigarettes  ? 

Everywhere  it  is  the  great  mass  which  buys,  the  men  with 
incomes  from  $500  to  $5000 ;  and  not  the  few  great  spenders 


218  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

with  incomes  in  the  tens  of  thousands.  Our  houses  are  in 
the  aggregate  the  houses  of  the  poor  and  of  the  middle  classes. 
The  million-dollar  palace  does  not  begin  to  compare  in  the 
aggregate  with  the  three-thousand-dollar  house,  which  the 
people  own  or  rent.  Steam  yachts  are  built  for  the  rich. 
How  much  of  the  wealth  of  the  country  goes  into  steam 
yachts  compared  with  that  which  goes  into  trolley  cars  for 
the  use  of  the  people  ?  Automobiles,  beginning  with  the  rich, 
have  come  down  to  the  moderately  wealthy,  to  small  business 
men  and  farmers.  Yet  compare  them  with  the  farmers' 
wagons.  Who,  rich  or  poor,  buys  the  harvesters,  plows, 
agricultural  machinery  ?  Who  buys  the  books,  the  magazines, 
the  newspapers?1 

The  enormous  consumption  every  year  is  a  consumption 
by  the  average  American,  by  the  comfortable,  and  especially 
by  the  poor,  by  the  people  who  must  work  to  live.  If  each 
poor  and  middle  class  family  had  an  average  income  of  only 
one  dollar  per  day  (twenty  cents  per  person),  it  would  mean 
a  total  expenditure  of  well  over  six  billions  of  dollars  a  year. 
An  added  expenditure  of  one  cent  per  day  per  person  on 
luxuries  aggregates  a  total  of  three  hundred  and  thirty-five 
millions  of  dollars  per  year. 

We  are  singularly  neglectful  of  such  facts  and  curiously 
oblivious  of  our  vast  new  expenditures,  which  signify  so 
complete  a  revolution  in  popular  standards  of  living.  Every 
week  Americans  travel  550,000,000  miles  upon  trains. 
Every  year  they  spend  $564,000,000  on  railroad  tickets. 

1  In  simple  uncommercial  communities  (as  in  Europe  during  the  Middle 
Ages)  the  wealthy  did  not  directly  consume  great  masses  of  commodities, 
but  hired  servants  to  eat  for  them  and  to  wear  out  clothes  for  them.  We 
have  no  statistics  of  our  modern  retinues  of  servants,  and  we  do  not  know 
the  number  of  domestic  servants  in  families  keeping,  let  us  say,  over  one 
servant.  The  number,  however,  is  probably  not  great.  Even  our  richest 
families  set  limits  to  the  numbers  of  their  idle  retainers,  and  "vicarious 
consumption"  by  servants  is  not  so  popular  an  ostentation  as  it  was  in 
simpler  days,  when  there  was  no  other  equally  spectacular  way  of  spending 
money. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  219 

It  means  a  new  national  habit.  To-day  there  are  over  three 
and  one.  half  million  telephone  subscribers  and  over  one 
connection  daily  for  every  family  in  the  United  States. 
Street  car  riding  for  pleasure,  city  pleasure  parks,  summer 
vacations,  the  purchase  of  books,  magazines,  and  newspapers, 
the  enormous  extension  of  the  five-cent  cigar,  the  democratiza- 
tion of  watches,  bicycles,  cameras,  carpets,  etc.,  signify  a 
change  within  the  last  half  a  century  of  the  farthest-reaching 
proportions.1 

Nor  do  individual  purchases  measure  the  increased  eco-  ^ 
nomic  power  of  the  average  man.  To-day  we  are  spending 
far  more  through  our  national,  State,  and  local  governments 
than  ever  before.  In  1870  we  spent  less  than  $8  per  family/ 
on  our  public  schools;  to-day  we  are  spending  well  over 
$22.  No  one  can  study  the  branching  social  activities  of 
cities  like  New  York,  Chicago,  Philadelphia,  St.  Louis,  and 
smaller  places  without  realizing  the  enormously  increased 
spending  power  of  the  masses  of  the  community. 

This  spending  does  not  exhaust  the  earnings  of  the  average 
American.  It  is  no  longer  contended  that  all  deposits  in 
savings  banks  are  made  by  workingmen  or  even  by  poor 
men;  and,  indeed,  it  is  widely  known  that  quite  wealthy 
men  often  have  deposits  in  various  savings  banks.  Never- 
theless, as  an  indication  of  the  saving  capacity  of  the 
average  mass,  the  increase  in  savings  bank  deposits  is  not  with- 
out significance.  Until  1858  these  deposits  never  amounted 
to  one  hundred  million  dollars.     In  1870  they  amounted  to 

1  A  highly  significant  indication  of  the  increased  spending  power  of  the 
masses  is  furnished  by  the  vast  sums  devoted  both  to  cheap  and  to  more 
expensive  amusements.  In  the  course  of  a  generation  the  salaries  of  actors, 
vaudeville  artists,  baseball  players,  etc.,  has  enormously  increased  as  a 
result  of  the  flood  of  wealth  pouring  from  the  pockets  of  the  people.  Mr. 
Keith  (a  great  vaudeville  promoter)  has  recently  said,  "  It  is  not  uncommon 
now  for  artists  to  receive  as  high  as  $2500  a  week  in  vaudeville,  and  it  is  a 
fact  in  high-priced  houses  in  the  East  and  West,  the  average  show,  which 
used  to  cost  $500  to  $600  a  week,  now  costs  from  $3000  to  $4500."  The 
New  York  Review,  quoted  in  the  Literary  Digest,  October  7,  1911. 


220  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

five;  in  1880,  to  eight ;  in  1890,  to  fifteen ;  and  in  1910,  to  forty 
hundreds  of  millions.  The  amount  of  ordinary  life  insurance 
policies  in  force  increased  from  less  than  70  millions  in  1850 
to  12,513  millions  in  1909;  industrial  insurance  increased 
from  twenty  millions  in  1880  to  2967  millions  in  1908; 
while  a  simultaneous  increase  is  recorded  in  the  amounts 
of  money  invested  in  building  and  loan  associations.  Any 
one  who  will  study  the  investment  advertisements  of  penny 
newspapers  and  of  five  and  ten  cent  magazines,  who  will 
examine  the  machinery  for  the  sale  of  bonds  and  stocks  to 
people  of  very  small  incomes ;  any  one  who  observes  the 
flood  of  gold  which  pours  from  thousands  of  obscure  sources 
to  any  plausible  swindler, — will  realize  the  tremendously 
wide  diffusion  of  wealth  in  America.1 

It  is  claimed  by  some  writers  that  the  decline  in  individual 
house  ownership  in  the  United  States  proves  that  the  masses 
of  the  American  people  are  becoming  less,  and  not  more, 
prosperous.  It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  to-day  a  smaller 
proportion  of  Americans  own  houses  in  which  they  dwell 
than  formerly,  and  this  significant  fact  must  be  set  off  against 
other  evidences  of  saving.  What  the  increasing  non-owner- 
ship of  one's  dwelling  house  proves,  however,  is  not  a  decline 
in  general  prosperity,  but  a  change  in  the  unit  of  investment 
in  houses  and  in  the  methods  of  general  investment.  It  is 
no  longer  an  invariable  custom  even  among  people  of  means 
to  own  their  homes;  and  so  far  are  we  from  any  direct  rela- 
tion between  poverty  and  non-ownership,  that  it  is  pre- 
cisely in  the  poorer  rural  districts  that  men  mostly  own  their 
homes,  while  in  the  richer  cities  ownership  is  less  usual.2 

1  Note,  for  instance,  the  "financial"  advertisements  appearing  in  cer- 
tain non-English  journals,  appealing  to  the  very  poorest  of  our  recent 
immigrants.  Note  also  the  magnitude  of  the  operations  of  the  little  immi- 
grant banks,  appealing  to  the  same  class.  See  the  statistics  of  money 
forwarded  to  Europe  by  recent  immigrants.  See  the  Report  of  the  Com- 
mission on  Immigration  of  the  State  of  New  York,  Albany,  1909. 

2  In  Manhattan,  which  is  an  island  of  tenement  and  apartment  houses, 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  221 

Even  with  the  increase  of  non-ownership,  the  vast  sums  of 
money  invested  in  individual  houses  and  lots  and  in  build- 
ing and  loan  associations  are  another  evidence  of  a  wide 
diffusion  of  property.  So  too  is  the  wealth  invested  in  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  small  manufacturing  and  mercantile 
establishments,  ranging  in  value  from  a  few  hundreds  to  a 
Aew  tens  of  thousands  of  dollars. 
/  It  is  not  to  be  contended  that  the  increasing  prosperity  of 
the  masses  has  been  universal.  Economic  stress  and  distress 
are  probably  greater  to-day  than  ever  before  among  the  free 
populations  of  America.  There  is  more  uncertainty.  Our 
slums  are  greater.1  There  are  sections  of  the  rural  corn- 
s' munity  which  have  been  depressed  by  our  economic  de- 
velopment, and  in  certain  isolated  places  there  has  been  a 
marked  deterioration  in  the  status  and  outlook  of  small 
communities.  During  the  last  dozen  years,  moreover, 
great  masses  of  our  working  classes,  especially  among  the 
unskilled  workers,  have  been  subjected  to  the  pressure  of 
increasing  prices,  and  only  with  great  difficulty  have  they 
secured  wage  increases  superior,  or  even  equal,  to  the  rise 
in  the  cost  of  living.2 

it  is  becoming  impossible  under  present  systems  of  ownership  for  men 
individually  to  own  their  homes. 
v  1  Our  poverty  has  changed,  as  has  our  country,  from  a  rural  to  an  urban 

\  variety;  from  a  poverty  more  dependent  upon  personal  incapacity,  to 
I  one  more  dependent  upon  economic  maladjustments.  Our  later  poverty 
is  unrelieved  by  the  presence  of  free  land.  To-day  when  the  poor  have  the 
advantages  of  city  sanitation,  free  schools,  dispensary  and  hospital  service, 
better  water,  cleaner  streets,  freer  legal  advice,  free  libraries,  etc.,  a  larger 
mass  of  men  and  women  tremble  on  the  verge  of  crime  or  dependence  than 
ever  before.  We  have  established  higher  standards  of  success,  and  those 
who  fall  below  these  standards,  whether  through  mischance,  lack  of  train-  j 
ing,  inebriety,  or  physical  or  mental  weakness,  are  more  miserable  than 
they  would  have  been  in  a  cruder  society,  in  which  an  inefficient  man  could 
always  secure  some  sort  of  a  job.  Despite  the  rise  of  the  mass  of  our  popu- 
lation, an  empty  stomach  in  America  is  as  empty  as  in  Russia  or  India.  — ' 
2  According  to  the  Reports  of  the  Bureau  of  Labor,  based  upon  the 
records  of  4034  establishments  in  the  principal  manufacturing  and  mechan- 


222  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Nor  is  it  claimed  that  this  general  rise  during  the  last 
half  century,  or  the  rise,  where  it  has  occurred,  during  the 
last  ten  years,  is  at  all  commensurate  with  the  reasonable 
anticipations  of  the  masses  of  the  community.  Content  with 
what  has  been  gained  is  the  very  worst  way  of  retaining  what 
has  been  gained.  The  question  here  considered  has  not  been 
whether  Americans  as  a  whole  should  be  satisfied  with  what 

ical  industries  in  the  United  States,  full  time  weekly  wages  in  1907  were 
22.4  per  cent  higher  than  the  average  for  the  years  1890-1899  inclusive, 
while  hourly  wages  were  28.8  per  cent  higher.  During  the  same  period, 
however,  the  rise  in  the  retail  prices  of  food,  weighted  according  to  the 
consumption  of  the  average  workingman's  family  (and  based  upon  data 
taken  from  the  records  of  993  retail  merchants),  was  no  less  than  20.6  per 
cent.  In  purchasing  power,  therefore,  full  time  weekly  wages  rose  only 
1.5  per  cent  from  1890-1899  to  1907,  although  hourly  wages  rose  6.8  per 
cent. 

A  recent  investigation  made  by  the  New  York  (State)  Department  of 
Labor  arrives  at  somewhat  similar  results.  "The  result  shown  by  this 
investigation  is  that  a  workingman's  living  of  a  given  standard  cost  22  per 
cent  more  in  1907  than  it  did  in  1897  in  New  York  City,  and  averaged  21.5 
per  cent  more  in  four  other  cities,  so  that  22  per  cent  may  be  taken  as 
about  the  proportion  of  increase  in  workmen's  cost  of  living  at  the  same 
standard  in  this  State.  By  reference  to  the  foregoing  pages  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  increase  in  average  per  diem  earnings  of  Union  members  in  the 
same  period  was  found  to  be  22.9  per  cent.  The  indication  is,  therefore, 
that  cost  of  living  has  risen  as  much  as  wage  rates  in  the  leading  trades. 
But  owing  to  increasing  steadiness  of  employment  it  was  found  that  the 
half-yearly  income  of  Union  workmen  in  the  principal  trades  had  risen 
31.2  per  cent  in  the  decade,  or  considerably  more  than  the  cost  of  living." 

If  with  these  figures  we  compare,  for  purely  illustrative  purposes,  the 
crude  averages  of  wages  paid  to  4,715,023  workers  (men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren) in  1900  and  to  5,470,321  workers  in  1905,  we  arrive  at  a  somewhat 
similar  result,  viz.  to  an  increase  of  12  per  cent  in  wages  during  a  period 
in  which  the  retail  prices  of  food  rose  11.2  per  cent.  (Summary  of  Manu- 
factures. Reports  of  the  Bureau  of  the  Census.  Department  of  Com- 
merce and  Labor.) 

Similarly  among  steam  railroad  employees,  while  the  wages  of  engine- 
men,  firemen,  conductors,  other  trainmen,  and  machinists  (as  given  by 
the  Reports  of  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission)  increased  from  1892 
to  1907  faster,  and  in  some  cases  much  faster,  than  did  the  retail  prices  of 
food  during  the  same  period  (as  given  by  the  Reports  of  the  Bureau  of 
Labor),  the  rise  in  wages  among  other  classes  was  but  little  greater,  and 
usually  was  actually  less  than  the  rise  in  the  prices  of  food. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  223 

has  fallen  from  the  table,  but  whether  the  increasing  pros- 
perity of  the  general  population  has,  or  has  not,  placed  it  in 
an  economic  position  where  it  is  better  able  to  take  part  in 
the  work  of  securing  industrial  reform  and  industrial  re- 
construction. 

It  is  not,  however,  by  wealth  alone  that  the  masses  secure 
industrial  supremacy.     We  need  not,  it  is  true,  fear  either 
in  America  or  elsewhere  that  the  masses  will  ever  attain  to 
such  a  superfluity  of  possessions  as  to  lame  their  future 
ambitions.     The  more  a  people  possess  above  the  mere 
absolute    minimum    necessary  to   life,   the   farther,   other 
things  being  equal,  are   they  removed  from  that  hell  of 
lethargic  contentment  to  which  moralists  during  so  many  ^ 
centuries  have  consigned  the  populations  that  waxed  fat. 
But  wealth,  without  education,  furnishes  no  sufficient  motive    / 
power  to  democratic  movements.     It  is  possible  that  the-^ 
German  masses  are  to-day  a  more  capable  democratic  group 
than  are  the  English,  because  the  Germans,  though  perhaps 
poorer,  and  with  fewer  political  rights,  are  better  educated. 

An  increased  diffusion  of  wealth,  however,  tends  towards 
the  ultimate  securing  of  education,  just  as  it  tends  towards 
the  acquisition  by  the  masses  of  political  rights  and  of  a 
sense  of  corporate  power  and  worth.     They  who  laud  theu^ 
blessings  of  poverty  (to  others)  fail  to  realize  the  enormous 
development  of  individuality  made  possible  in  modern  society   \ 
by  an  income  above  the  level  of  existence.     A  man  with  a 
thousand  dollars  a  year  may  have  ten  times  as  many  educative  * 
social  contacts  as  has  the  man  with  five  hundred.     A  popu- 
lation the  majority  of  whom  have  a  surplus  of  income  above 
necessary  expenditure  is  enormously  stronger  than  a  popula- 
tion upon  a  lower  earning  fine. 

To-day  the  mass  of  Americans,  grown  in  wealth,  are  a 
power  in  industry,  education,  and  the  state.  They  are  not 
abject,  " respectful' •  helots.  They  do  not  look  up  to  su- 
periors.    They  themselves,  in  their  collectivity,  feel  their  own 


224  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

superiority.  They  are  aggressive,  impolite,  and  socially 
irreverent. 
•»  There  is  perhaps  a  certain  harshness  to  this  emerging 
"common  man,"  who  with  a  little  money  and  a  little  knowl- 
edge is  beginning  to  feel  his  collective  importance.  He 
knows  that  he  cannot  be  ignored  by  trust  builder  or  political 
magnate.  His  custom  must  be  appealed  to ;  his  prejudices 
must  be  respected.  He  can  not  be  "voted,"  for  his  vote 
is  worth  as  much  to  himself  as  to  the  briber.  He  need  not 
vote  for  a  "full  dinner  pail,"  but  may  canvass  alternatives. 
He  fears  neither  landlord  nor  employer.  He  has  his  prefer- 
ences in  clothes,  books,  newspapers,  schools,  and  laws,  and 
e  has  the  material  prosperity  to  back  his  choice. 

The  diffused  wealth  of  the  people  is  readily  transmuted 
into  intellectual  influence.  A  poverty-stricken  class  will 
ot  have  its  interests  represented  by  an  able  periodical  press 
because  (among  other  reasons)  it  cannot  pay  for  it.  To 
support  a  paper  or  magazine  a  social  class  must  not  only 
pay  its  pennies  in  circulation,  but  must  spend  its  dollars  on 
the  wares  advertised.  There  can  be  no  better  proof  of  the 
rise  in  wealth  of  the  great  mass  than  the  enormous  growth 
of  five  and  ten  cent  magazines,  supporting  themselves  by 
advertising  soaps,  razors,  and  breakfast  foods. 
X  The  average  man  —  finding  money  in  his  purse  —  de- 
termines to  educate  himself.  Often  this  education  is  de- 
layed a  generation  and  is  acquired  vicariously  by  son  or 
daughter.  Sometimes  it  is  desired  because  supposed  to  pay 
in  dollars  and  cents,  or  in  positions  of  more  unquestioned 
"gentility."  Behind  this,  however,  there  is  a  far  more  vital 
and  general  motive.  It  is  the  American  instinct  for  edu- 
cation. 

That  instinct  is  perhaps  rather  crude,  undiscriminating, 

»and  still  intent  upon  quantity  rather  than  quality.     Much 

of  our  education  is  superficial  and  perfunctory,  and  some  is 

absolutely  noxious.     Our  schools  have  been  as  anarchic  as 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  225 

our  factories.  We  still  maintain  woefully  underpaid  and 
undertrained  teachers,  appointed  in  some  towns  and  cities 
under  a  spoils  system.  We  still  have  miserable  schoolrooms, 
antiquated  textbooks,  and  an  incredible  mass  of  tenacious 
incompetence  and  pedagogical  perversity.  And  yet  the 
American  instinct  for  education  —  like  so  many  popular 
instincts  —  is  astoundingly  true.  It  is  perhaps  our  most 
fundamental  appreciation  of  democracy. 

A  diffused  education,  like  a  diffused  prosperity,  is  neces- 
sary to  democracy.  In  a  democracy,  the  government  can 
hardly  rise  above  the  intellectual  level  of  the  mass.  Where, 
as  in  America,  the  majority  are  but  little  inclined  to  submit 
their  opinions  to  the  judgment  of  a  special  intellectual  class, 
/it  is  absolutely  essential  that  the  mass  of  the  people  be  in- 
\Jelligent  —  politically  and  otherwise. 

Never  before  was  education  so  necessary.  Even  in  our 
personal  affairs  we  are  overwhelmed  with  an  embarrassment 
of  choices  and  a  superfluity  of  theories.  We  must  decide 
hourly  a  thousand  questions  —  what  to  eat  and  drink  and 
wear  and  buy ;  when  to  sleep ;  how  to  raise  the  baby ;  how 
to  furnish  the  house;  how  to  obtain  money;  what  attitude 
to  adopt  towards  germs.  Our  new  science  prevents  us  from 
falling  back  upon  routine,  as  our  new  ethics  forbid  us  to 
depend  upon  traditions.  Even  our  religion  is  laicized,  and 
most  of  us  choose  (and  direct)  our  spiritual  advisers,  jpts  we 
choose  our  public  servants,  newspapers,  and  patent  medicines. 
Our  laws  against  fraud  do  not  quite  relieve  the  intellectual 
strain.  Pure  food  and  corporation  laws  tell  us  whether  there 
is  alum  in  the  baking  powder  or  water  in  the  trust,  but  it 
remains  for  us  to  determine  whether  we  will  take  our  baking 
powder  and  trusts  that  way. 

Our  public  problems  involve  even  a  greater  intellectual 
effort.  In  no  democracy  do  the  intellectually  assembled 
people  make  all  decisions.  The  people  decide  the  broad 
issues,  but  delegate  to  legislators  and  administrators  the 


226  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

power  to  prepare  ways  and  means,  reserving,  at  best,  a  po- 
tential veto.  Despite  this  latency  of  democracy,  however, 
the  people,  if  ignorant,  are  powerless,  however  wide  the  vote 
or  sensitive  the  political  system.  They  are  like  a  giant  with 
occluded  brain;  a  giant  beating  his  own  breast.  Sover- 
eignty tends  to  approach  the  intellectual  (as  it  tends  to 
approach  the  economic)  center  of  gravity  of  society.  If 
knowledge  is  concentrated  at  the  top,  society  tends  to  be- 
/r^Qpme  politically  —  as  well  as  intellectually  —  top-heavy. 

Wealth  means  education.  Even  in  countries  with  free 
and  universal  education,  the  illiterates  are,  on  the  whole, 
\  the  very  poor,  while  the  better-to-do  classes  have  the  higher 
(^education.  Even  where  tuition  is  free,  the  ability  to  go  to 
school  depends  upon  the  possession  of  money  to  support  the 
pupil  during  these  years  of  preparation.  As  the  wealth  of 
the  average  citizen  increases,  the  school  year  lengthens,  and 
the  age  at  which  children  may  legally  leave  school  is  raised. 

Literacy  is  not  learning,  and  learning  is  not  intelligence. 
A  sanity  of  judgment  is  often  found  among  men  without 
their  letters,  while,  at  the  other  end  of  the  ladder,  recipients 
of  learned  degrees  often  suffer  through  life  from  intellectual 
stodginess.     Our  intellectual  measurements  are  arbitrary. 

Nevertheless,  the  ability  to  read  and  write  is  the  best  single 
standard  of  education  that  we  possess,  for  to-day,  more  than 
ever  before,  printer's  ink  rules  the  world,  and  literacy  is  in- 
dispensable to  communication.  To-day  social  knowledge 
requires  a  recourse,  not  to  memory,  but  to  the  accumulated 
intellectual  stores  buried  in  print.  Modern  government 
makes  literacy  essential.  The  old  direct  democracy,  as 
represented  in  the  town  meeting,  broke  down  when  the  com- 
munity grew  so  large  that  a  man's  voice  could  not  carry. 
A  political  babel  ensued,  and  there  arose  a  representative 
government,  which  always  tended  to  become  a  more  or  less 
unrepresentative  government  by  a  special  class.  To-day, 
when  final  decisions  are  again  thrown  back  upon  the  people, 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  227 

when  representatives  are  tending  to  become  political  autom- 
ata, the  old  problem  of  direct  government,  that  of  making 
a  man's  voice  carry,  reappears.  Through  the  printed  word 
one  can  reach  a  hundred  million  literate  auditors. 

Illiteracy  in  the  United  States  is  not  nearly  so  low  as  in 
Germany,  Norway,  Sweden,  France,  or  Great  Britain.  We 
have  still  a  heavy  burden  of  Negro  illiteracy  inherited  from 
slavery,  and  to-day  a  large  proportion  of  our  immigrants  come 
from  illiterate  populations.  While  no  less  than  one  in  ten 
(10.7  per  cent)  of  all  Americans  ten  years  of  age  and  over  * 
are  unable  to  write,  the  proportion  of  such  illiterates  among 
Negroes  is  44.5  per  cent,  among  our  foreign-born  is  12.9  per 
cent,  and  among  our  native  white  population  is  4.6  per  cent. 
Even  this  smaller  percentage  of  illiteracy  of  native  whites 
is  largely  due  to  the  poverty,  dispersion  of  population,  and 
special  racial  problems  of  the  South.  Excepting  Maine 
(which  has  a  large  French  Canadian  population)  no  State 
above  the  old  Mason  and  Dixon  line  has  an  illiteracy  of 
2  per  cent.  In  eighteen  States  the  illiterates  form  less  than 
1  per  cent  of  the  population  of  the  age  of  ten  and  over. 

American  illiteracy  is  slowly  disappearing.  In  1880, 
17.0  per  cent  of  Americans  ten  years  of  age  and  over  were  un- 
able to  write  as  compared  with  10.7  per  cent  in  1900,  and 
during  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth  century  the  percent- 
age probably  fell  again.  Negro  illiteracy,  almost  uni- 
versal in  1865,  has  fallen  rapidly.  As  for  the  immigrants, 
their  children  (largely  because  city  dwellers)  are  more  literate 
than  the  children  of  native  Americans.  To-day  illiteracy  is 
practically  a  phenomenon  of  the  South,  and  with  the  growth 
in  Southern  wealth  and  enterprise  it  is  bound  to  dwindle. 

A  literate  population  may  remain  ignorant  and  socially 
impotent.2    Although  the  ability  to  read  is  more  important 

1  Census  of  1900. 

2  Much  of  what  has  been  called  a  deterioration  of  our  newspapers  and 
of  our  fugitive  literature,  generally,  has  in  reality  been  caused,  not  by  a 


/ 

228  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

than  any  single,  subsequent  step  towards  the  attainment  of  ._ 
knowledge,  mere  literacy  will  not  suffice  for  the  attainment 
of  democracy,   to  say  nothing  of  the   proper  working  of  / 
democratic  institutions  once  attained.   The  intellectual  level 
of  democratic  striving  is  above  the  literacy  line,  just  as  the^ 
economic  level  is  above  the  poverty  line. 

Like  the  economic,  so  also  the  intellectual  level  of  demo- 
cratic striving  is  difficult  precisely  to  determine.  It  varies 
among  different  nations  and  different  sections  and  groups 
of  a  nation.  It  rises  with  the  growing  complexity  of  in- 
dustrial and  political  arrangements  and  with  the  increased 
subtlety  and  finesse  of  antidemocratic  maneuvers.  The 
average  citizen  need  not  be  as  cunning  as  a  counterfeiter  to 
put  a  counterfeiter  in  jail  by  due  process  of  law.  He  need 
not  be  a  political  economist,  constitutional  lawyer,  and  sani- 
tarian combined  ("like  Cerberus,  three  gentlemen  in  one") 
to  appreciate  the  social  need  of  such  experts,  but  he  must 
be  wise  enough  to  care  and  wise  enough  to  elect  men  who 
/""""know.  The  irreducible  intellectual  minimum,  necessary  for 
the  attainment  of  democracy,  includes  some  form  of  social 
consciousness  above  the  cruder  manifestations  of  mere 
jingoism,  some  measure  of  group-consciousness,  some  appre- 
ciation of  the  importance  of  public  developments,  some 
recognition  of  the  necessity  of  united  action,  some  realization 
of  the  ordinary  means  of  attaining  common  ends,  a  tempered 
confidence  in  leaders,  and  a  capacity  for  distinguishing  larger 

Lfrom  smaller  and  more  immediate  ends.  The  citizen  must 
have  a  certain  social  sense  and  sensitiveness.     What  is  neces- 

I  decline  in  the  intelligence  of  the  population  but  by  the  increasing  literacy 
of  the  uneducated.  Newspapers  catering  to  these  more  ignorant  elements 
of  the  population  have  a  wide  latitude  of  suggestion  and  statement,  be- 
cause their  readers  are  satisfied  with  broad  appeals  to  their  corporate 
vanity  and  with  general  but  misdirected  denunciations,  instead  of  demand- 
ing an  effective  expression  of  their  views.  Ignorant  readers  do  not  secure 
much  real  representation  in  public  opinion,  just  as  ignorant  voters  do  not 
secure  real  representation  in  political  action.  ? 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  229 

sary  is  not  only  the  alphabet  (that  open  sesame  to  the  books  of 
the  world),  but  also  a  wide,  deep  popular  education  through 
the  school,  the  public  press,  the  city,  the  factory,  and  a  myriad 
of  social  contacts. 

American  education  has  always  encountered  tremendous 
difficulties.  During  the  colonial  period  the  settlers  were  too 
scattered  and  busy  to  have  much  opportunity  for  study. 
The  Revolutionary  War  dislocated  the  school  system,  and 
left  the  colonists  impoverished.  The  second  war  with  Great 
Britain,  the  drain  of  young  men  to  the  West,  and  the  general 
dispersal  of  the  population  further  retarded  the  educational 
development.  As  late  as  1837  one  third  of  all  children  in 
Massachusetts  were  without  any  school  advantages  whatso- 
ever, and  a  large  proportion  of  the  remainder  attended  school 
only  two  or  three  months  in  winter  or  a  few  weeks  in  summer. 

In  the  South  the  difficulties  were  even  greater.  The 
system  of  large  plantations,  the  absence  of  township  govern- 
ment, the  sparseness  of  population,  the  institution  of  slavery, 
the  aristocratic  traditions  and  the  parish  schools  of  the 
Church  of  England,  barred  the  way  to  the  public  school  for 
almost  two  centuries.  In  the  West,  despite  a  great  zeal  for 
education,  it  was  difficult  to  secure  more  than  its  rudiments. 
The  little  red  schoolhouse  was  often  an  aspiration  rather  than 
a  pedagogical  accomplishment.  . 

During  the  last  three  generations,  however,  a  complete\ 
revolution  has  taken  place  in  American  instruction,  and  the  \ 
free  public  school  has  been  elevated  to  the  first  place  in  the   / 
democracy.     By   1850  public   elementary  education,   sup- 
ported by  taxation,   had  been   established   with  varying 
degrees  of  completeness  in  all  parts  of  the  country,  and  its 
subsequent  history  has  been  one  of  rapid  development.     It  is 
impossible    here  to  sketch   even   in  vaguest    outline  the 
stupendous  changes  which  have  taken  place  in  pedagogical 
methods,  in  the  character  of  textbooks,  in  the  development 
of  curricula,  in  the  spirit  of  the  school.     Mere  external  figures 


\ 


230  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

are  perhaps  more  convincing.  To-day  (1909)  we  have  seven- 
teen and  a  half  million  boys  and  girls  enrolled  in  the  public 
schools,  with  an  average  daily  attendance  of  over  twelve 
and  a  half  millions.  We  have  over  half  a  million  public 
school  teachers,  on  whose  salaries  $237,000,000  are  annually 
spent.  Not  only  does  the  proportion  of  enrolled  school 
children  continually  increase;  not  only  do  the  children 
enrolled  attend  more  frequently  and  for  longer  terms, 
but  the  number  of  teachers,  the  salaries  of  teachers,  and 
the  sums  spent  upon  public  education  increase  even  more 
rapidly.1 

The  zeal,  one  might  almost  say  the  abandon,  with  which 
America  is  giving  herself  up  to  education  is  revealed  by  the 
increasing  appropriations  for  public  schools.  Especially 
rapid  has  been  the  increase  in  our  secondary  education,  the 
number  of  pupils  in  the  secondary  grades  having  increased 
124  per  cent  in  the  fourteen  years  1890  to  1904.  The  prog- 
ress during  the  same  period  both  in  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  our  college  and  university  education  has  been 
even  more  startling.  According  to  Mr.  Bryce,  writing  in 
1905,  "  there  has  been  within  these  last  thirty-five  years  a 
development  of  the  higher  education  in  the  United  States 
perhaps  without  a  parallel  in  the  world."  2 

Year  by  year,  American  education  becomes  broader, 
deeper,  and  more  differentiated.  We  are  rapidly  develop- 
ing special  education  for  special  classes,  for  special  ages,  for 
special  aptitudes.     The  education  of  women  has  taken  enor- 

1  While  the  population  between  the  ages  of  5  and  18  increased  during  the 
period  1870  and  1909  from  12,055,443  to  24,239,820,  or  101.1  per  cent,  the 
number  of  pupils  enrolled  in  the  public  schools  increased  154.8  per  cent 
(6,871,522  to  17,506,175)  and  the  average  daily  attendance  increased 
211.1  per  cent  (4,077,347  to  12,684,837).  During  the  same  period  the 
number  of  teachers  increased  152.4  per  cent  (200,515  to  506,040) ;  the 
salaries  of  superintendents  and  teachers  increased  over  sixfold  ($37,832,566 
to  $237,013,913)  ;  and  the  total  expenditure  for  the  public  schools  also  in- 
creased over  sixfold  ($63,396,666  to  $401,397,747). 

2  V  America  Revisited,"  The  Outlook,  March,  1905. 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  231 

mous  steps  forward.  Our  professional  schools,  although 
many  of  them  are  still  archaic  and  vicious,  are  being  re- 
formed. Our  kindergartens,  our  manual  training  schools, 
etc.,  are  enormously  in  advance  of  anything  in  America  a 
generation  ago. 

Even  more  stupendous  has  been  the  effect  of  our  recent 
library  development  upon  the  intellectual  development  of 
the  broad  masses  of  the  people.  Nowhere  during  the  last 
twenty  years  has  there  been  a  development  of  the  public 
library  on  anything  approaching  the  American  scale.  The 
strengthening  alliance  between  schools  and  public  libraries, 
the  deposit  of  book  collections  in  schools,  the  widespread 
system  of  traveling  libraries,  the  creation  of  special  reading 
rooms  for  children,  the  specialization  of  libraries  for  the 
blind  and  other  groups,  the  growing  list  of  private  benefac- 
tions to  libraries,  and  the  enormous  extension  in  the  use  of 
libraries  have  been  parts  of  a  development  which  has 
brought  books  of  all  kinds  to  the  masses  of  the  people.  Si- 
multaneously there  has  been  so  stupendous  a  growth  of  the 
newspaper  *  and  the  magazine,  and  so  keen  a  stimulation  to 
general  reading,  that  to-day  one  finds  everywhere  in  the 
cities  that  men  are  much  —  if  not  well  —  informed.  There 
was  never  a  time  in  the  history  of  the  world  when  so  many 
minds,  uniting  to  form  public  opinion,  were  so  stirred. 

The  mind  of  the  nation  is  becoming  not  only  more  inquisi- 
tive into  all  things,  but  intelligence  is  spreading  out  over  an 
ever  wider  area.  The  newspaper  and  the  magazine,  aided 
by  the  rural  free  delivery,  now  invade  country  districts, 

1  In  1775  there  was  not  a  single  daily  paper  published  in  the  colonies ; 
by  1820  there  were  27  dailies,  with  an  annual  circulation  of  22,321,000.  By 
1828  this  circulation  had  trebled ;  by  1871  it  had  increased  67  fold  to  the 
enormous  total  of  1,500,000,000  copies.  Since  then  the  development  has 
been  even  more  remarkable.  In  1907-1908  there  were  published  in  the 
United  States  and  Canada  22,487  periodicals  (of  which  21,320  were  pub- 
lished in  the  United  States).  Of  these  22,487  periodicals,  16,067  were 
weekly,  2681  monthly,  2494  daily,  269  semimonthly,  618  semiweekly, 
190  quarterly,  49  biweekly ;   57  triweekly,  and  73  bimonthly. 


232  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

hitherto  inaccessible.  Everywhere  the  links  of  thought  are 
drawn  closer.  The  mails,  the  telegraph,  and  the  telephone 
spread  intelligence  with  enormous  rapidity.  The  statistics 
of  the  post  office  indicate  the  wide  spread  of  intelligence 
through  letters  and  newspapers.  During  the  forty  years 
ending  in  1910,  the  population,  according  to  the  census 
statistics,  increased  139  per  cent,  while  the  number  of 
ordinary  postage  stamps  issued  increased  1806  per  cent. 
The  telegraph  development,  though  rapid,  has  been 
stunted  by  the  high  rates  for  messages,  but  an  enormous 
expansion  of  telephone  communication  is  even  now  taking 
place.1 

In  the  city,  as  in  the  country,  a  public  opinion  based  upon 
many  sources  of  information  is  steadily  forming.  Here  the 
means  of  communication  have  been  so  perfected  that  the 
danger  lies  not  in  an  under-  but  almost  in  an  overstimula- 
tion of  the  mind.  Men,  separated  by  only  a  few  blocks  or  a 
few  miles,  are  united  by  the  telephone  and  the  street  car. 
The  spirit  of  the  city  is  association,  and  in  the  growing  cities 
of  America  are  found  the  nuclei  of  vast  associative  efforts 
with  the  object  of  political,  social,  and  industrial  better- 
ment. In  the  city,  where  a  man  may  not  know  his  neighbor, 
most  men  can  find  their  like-minded  fellows,  and  here  —  even 
more  than  in  the  country  districts  —  is  being  created  that 
associative  and  cooperative  intelligence,  public  opinion. 

This  growing  intelligence  of  the  American  masses,2  like 

1  From  January  1,  1904,  to  January  1,  1910,  the  number  of  exchanges 
and  branch  offices  of  the  American  Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company, 
and  of  the  operating  companies  associated  with  it,  increased  from  3740  to 
4968 ;  the  number  of  subscribers  increased  from  1,525,167  to  3,588,247  or 
111  per  cent,  the  number  of  daily  exchange  connections  from  9,876,402  to 
19,925,194  or  101.7  per  cent,  while  the  population  of  the  country  increased 
less  than  13  per  cent. 

2  Twenty  years  ago,  Mr.  Bryce  said  ("American  Commonwealth," 
Vol.  II,  pp.  867-869) :  "Nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  growing  up  such  a 
vast  multitude  of  intelligent,  cultivated,  and  curious  readers.  It  is  true 
that  of  the  whole  population  a  majority  of  the  men  read  little  but  news- 


THE  LEVELS  OF  DEMOCRATIC  STRIVING  233 

their  growing  wealth  and  income,  is  a  vital  fact  in  the  achieve- 
ment of  political  and  industrial  democracy.  Just  as  the 
feudal  regime  began  to  totter  when  the  bullet  of  the  common 
soldier  pierced  the  steel  armor  of  the  knight,  so  our  regime  of 
pecuniary  and  industrial  privilege  begins  to  crumble  when  its 
pretensions  are  riddled  by  the  questions  of  the  straight- 
thinking  masses.  The  constantly  greater  drawing  upon  new 
and  old  agencies  of  education,  from  the  trade  union  to  the 
university,  and  from  the  Grange  to  the  moving  picture ;  the 
ever  widening  circle  of  influence  of  our  education ;  in  short, 
our  gradual  creation  of  an  intellectual  republic,  while  a  conse- 
quence of  our  more  diffused  wealth,  is  in  turn  a  cause  of  it. 
More  money  for  the  people  means  more  education,  and  more 
education  means  more  money. 

To-day  the  American  people  are  gradually  attaining  a  wide 
diffusion  of  wealth  and  intelligence.  They  have  already  at- 
tained formal  political  rights.1  There  is  growing  up  an 
enormous  mass  of  people  who  not  only  possess  the  vote,  but 
also  sufficient  money  and  sufficient  intelligence  not  to  be  ^ 
coerced  or  too  often  deluded.  This  mass  of  citizens,  if  they 
can  unite,  should  be  able  to  secure  control  of  government  and 
of  industry  and  to  reconstitute  America  according  to  the 
wishes  of  the  majority. 

The  question  remains,  "Can  they  unite?"  Have  they 
interests  in  common  ?    Are  they  part  of  an  organic  whole  ? 

papers,  and  many  of  the  women  little  but  novels.  Yet  there  remains  a 
number  to  be  counted  by  millions,  who  enjoy  and  are  moved  by  the  higher 
products  of  thought  and  imagination ;  and  it  must  be  that  as  this  number 
continues  to  grow,  each  generation  rising  somewhat  above  the  level  of  its 
predecessors,  history  and  science,  and  even  poetry,  will  exert  a  power  such 
as  they  have  never  yet  exerted  over  the  masses  of  any  country." 

1  As  the  economic  level  of  democratic  striving  lies  above  the  poverty 
line,  and  the  intellectual  level  lies  above  the  literary  line,  so  the  political 
level  runs  above  the  suffrage  line.  The  ballot  is  a  key  which  opens  all 
political  closets,  but  it  is  only  a  key  —  useless  if  unused.  Besides  the  right 
and  habit  of  voting,  the  average  citizen  must  be  cognizant  of  some  of  the 
present  limitations  and  some  of  the  future  potentialities  of  the  ballot. 


234    /  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

A  rope  of  sand,  though  it  be  composed  of  ninety  million 
or  of  ninety  quadrillion  grains,  is  but  a  rope  of  sand.  Is 
there  an  internal  cohesion  of  the  people?  Is  there  a  soli- 
/~\  darity  ?  Is  there  a  mass  to  oppose  to  the  privileges  and  pre- 
tensions of  a  class  ? 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   GATHERING   FORCES   OF   THE   DEMOCRACY 

THE  solidarity  of  the  masses  above  the  three  levels  of 
democratic  striving  may  not  be  arbitrarily  assumed.  \ 
Just  as  the  visible  lands  above  sea  level  differ  from  the  sub-1' 
merged  lands  and  yet  equally  differ  among  each  other  in  alti- 
tude, latitude,  and  structure,  so  the  emerged  masses,  though 
on  a  different  plane  from  the  submerged,  are  split  into  classes, 
groups,  and  sub-groups  by  the  action  of  race,  religion,  tradi- 
jtion,  occupation,  and  income. 

This  very  broadness  and  vagueness  of  the  democratic 
masses,  of  the  masses  above  the  level  of  democratic  striving, 
is  of  the  very  essence  of  the  problem.  It  is  easy,  by  a 
logical  tour  de  force,  to  divide  society  into  two  simple,  an- 
tagonistic groups,  each  of  which  is  supposed  to  be  united  by  a 
single  quality  or  condition  and  to  be  animated  by  a  single 
purpose.  Such  a  doctrinaire  alignment  of  social  classes,  an 
alignment  like  that  between  proletariat  and  non-proletariat, 
or  between  the  propertied  and  the  absolutely  unpropertied, 
has  the  advantage  of  clearness  and  literalness,  but,  inter- 
preted clearly  and  literally,  it  does  not  represent  actual 
divisions  in  society. 

The  more  complex  society  is  (and  it  becomes  more  complex 
yearly),  the  greater  is  the  difficulty  in  dividing  the  commu- 
nity into  two  mutually  exclusive  groups,  with  clear-cut,  antag- 
onistic philosophies.  The  ideals  of  men  tend  more  or  less 
to  coincide  with  their  industrial  interests,  but  the  result  is 
affected  by  prejudices,  antipathies,  sympathies,  and  tradi- 
tions ;  and  prepossession  is  nine  points  of  belief.  Nor  are 
industrial  interests  themselves  so  simple  or  easily  classifi- 

235 


236  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

able.  Special  group  interests  conflict  with  general  group 
interests,  as  when  the  locomotive  engineer  sides  with  the 
railroad  stockholder  against  the  Negro  or  Italian  track- 
layer. Subsidiary  economic  interests  affect  the  result,  as 
when  the  workingman  is  also  a  small  investor  or  even  a  direct 
employer  of  other  men's  labor.  Family  bonds  create  cross- 
lines  of  interest.  The  stone  mason's  son  may  be  traveling 
salesman  for  a  trust;  the  daughter  of  a  grocer  may  be  a 
school-teacher  or  milliner;  the  brother  of  an  obsequious 
butler  may  be  a  walking  delegate,  a  village  minister,  a  bucket- 
shop  keeper,  a  tenant  farmer,  or  a  small  pharmacist. 

Here,  as  elsewhere  in  sociology,  we  must  sacrifice  a  ficti- 
tious simplicity  to  the  greater  complexity  and  vagueness  of 
the  truth.  The  real  facts  of  our  economic  life  are  too  be- 
wilderingly  intricate  to  be  covered  exactly  by  *  any  rigid 
formula,  however  necessary  such  formulae  may  be.  In  de- 
picting social  cleavages  we  may  profitably  use  with  mental 
reservations  such  facile  current  phrases  as  "the  public/' 
"the  common  people."  But  who  are  "the  common  people," 
as  distinguished  from  other  members  of  society  ?  It  is  easy 
to  think  abstractly  of  "the  masses"  and  "the  classes"  as 
two  distinct,  antagonistic  groups.  When,  however,  we  re- 
view the  actual  people  in  our  block,  city,  or  township,  we 
encounter  insuperable  difficulties  of  classification.  Take  the 
milkman,  the  college  professor,  the  locomotive  engineer, 
the  dentist,  the  eight  hundred-dollar-a-year  minister,  the 
briefless  attorney,  the  saloon  keeper,  the  manufacturer  of 
carpets,  the  importer  of  dolls,  the  semi-successful  novelist, 
the  chorus  girl,  the  little  pawnbroker,  the  truck-gardener, 
the  city  policeman,  the  penniless  pickpocket,  the  farmer 
with  a  two-thousand  dollar  farm,  the  sweated  employer  of 
sweatshop  labor,  the  bricklayer  with  one  thousand  dollars 
in  the  bank,  the  life  insurance  general  agent,  the  four-thou- 
sand dollar-a-year  designer  for  a  cloak  factory,  the  buyer  for 
a  big  department  store,  —  take  these,  and  determine  in  each 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      237 

case  whether  the  man  or  woman  belongs  to  the  masses  or  to 
the  classes.  Anticipate,  without  further  knowledge,  how  the 
man  will  "line  up"  for  or  against  democratic  institutions. 
Take  the  farmer  alone.  How  big  a  farm  or  how  big  a  mort- 
gage puts  a  man  in  one  group  or  the  other  ? 

We  must  apply  our  standards  modestly.  Only  roughly 
and  inaccurately  can  we  determine  in  practice  what  elements 
in  the  population  constitute  the  democratic  masses,  the  im- 
pelling force  of  democracy.  We  cannot  designate  individuals, 
just  as  in  statistics,  though  we  can  predict  how  many  men 
and  maids  will  marry  next  year,  we  cannot  foretell  whether 
John  Doe  or  Jane  Roe  will  marry.  Any  classification  will 
involve  millions  of  exceptions,  and  groups,  favoring  certain 
extensions  of  democracy,  will  be  opposed  to  other  extensions. 

It  is  only  when  we  attempt  to  apply  the  levels  of  democratic 
striving  to  our  extremely  differentiated  population  that  we 
realize  the  vastness  of  the  social  spaces  which  separate 
groups  which  must  be  united  in  the  bonds  of  solidarity. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  wealth  the  bulk  of  the  democratic 
mass  (bearing  in  mind  the  multitude  of  exceptions)  do  not 
stand  either  at  the  top  or  at  the  very  bottom  of  Fortune's 
ladder.  This  mass  excludes  a  majority  of  our  business  princes 
with  dependents  and  hangers-on,  as  well  as  other  men,  who 
have  no  affiliation  with  the  plutocracy  other  than  a  common 
lawlessness.  The  democratic  mass  also  excludes  a  majority 
of  men  below  the  poverty  line,  the  abjectly  poor,  who  are 
also  largely  the  defectives,  dependents,  delinquents,  the\ 
illiterate,  and  the  disfranchised.  The  democratic  mass\\ 
represents  a  residue  of  the  population,  after  a  majority  of 
the  very  rich  and  of  the  abjectly  poor  have  been  drawn  off.  / 
This  residue  seems  to  constitute  or  to  be  about  to  constitute  a/ 
vast  majority.  If  in  the  total  absence  of  statistics  or  even  of 
a  statistical  classification  which  would  be  applicable,  we 
arbitrarily  estimate  at  twenty  millions  the  people  who  are 
debarred  through  excessive  wealth  or  excessive  poverty, 


238  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ignorance,  or  political  impotence  from  effectively  willing 
a  large  measure  of  democratic  reorganization,  there  would  still 
remain  of  our  ninety  millions  of  people  some  seventy  mil- 
lions who  may  perhaps  have  the  material,  intellectual,  and 
political  means  to  strive  for  the  attainment  of  a  democratic 
civilization,  and  who  have  a  perceivable  interest  in  its 
achievement. 

It  is  from  the  very  conditions  of  the  problem  impossible 
to  say  just  what  proportion  of  these  assumed  seventy  mil- 
lions 1  are  actively  interested  in  democratic  reform  generally, 
or  in  any  specific  reform.  For  the  most  part,  the  active  pro- 
ponents or  opponents  of  any  change,  industrial,  political,  or 
social,  are  extremely  few,  and  the  great  mass  simply  have 
their  thumbs  up  or  down.  Many  are  counted  who  have  not 
decided,  and  many  vote  who  do  not  know  what  the  voting  is 
about. 

Nevertheless,  bearing  still  in  mind  the  multitude  of  ex- 
ceptions, we  may  speak  of  a  potentially  democratic  mass, 
which  though  possessed  of  common  attributes  (some  earning 
power,  some  intellectual  ability,  and  some  power  to  affect 
elections),  is  still  a  highly  heterogeneous  group  of  groups. 
This  mass  probably  includes  a  majority  of  farmers  and  of 
farm  laborers,  especially  in  the  more  prosperous  sections  of 
the  country.  It  includes  a  majority  of  men  and  women  in 
professional  service  (actors,  architects,  designers,  artists, 
clergymen,  dentists,  electricians,  engineers,  lawyers,  journal- 
ists, authors,  government  officials,  physicians,  surgeons, 
teachers,  and  professors).  It  includes  the  majority  of  skilled 
workmen  in  all  trades  and  a  large  proportion  of  unskilled 
men,  employed  with  reasonable  regularity.  It  includes 
many  specialized  domestic  servants.     It  includes  the  major- 

1  To  avoid  misunderstandings,  I  wish  to  disclaim  any  even  approximate 
accuracy  for  this  number,  which  depends  naturally  upon  the  interpretation 
given  to  inevitably  loose  terms.  What  I  wish  by  the  somewhat  arbitrary 
figure  to  emphasize  is  the  largeness  and  looseness  of  the  groups  to  be  ap- 
pealed to  in  any  fundamental  democratic  movement. 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      239 

ity  of  men  in  all  grades  of  the  railroad  service,  except  com- 
mon laborers,  and  an  unknown  proportion  of  the  latter.  It 
includes  a  majority  of  merchants  and  dealers,  retail  and  whole- 
sale; a  majority  of  agents  and  brokers,  bookkeepers,  ac- 
countants, clerks,  and  stenographers,  and  a  doubtful  propor- 
tion of  hucksters  and  peddlers.  In  certain  trades  it  includes 
a  larger  proportion  of  workers  than  in  others.  The  propor- 
tion is  larger  in  certain  States,  cities,  or  wards  than  in  others. 
The  whole  mass  is  fluctuating,  ill-defined,  composite,  hetero- 
geneous. But  it  is  precisely  of  this  large,  not  exactly  defin- 
able, section  that  we  speak ;  a  section  which  may  include  a 
prosperous  Montana  farmer,  a  Baltimore  grocer,  a  Maine 
lumberjack,  a  San  Francisco  bricklayer,  an  Atlanta  cotton 
factor,  a  Schenectady  drill-hand,  a  saving  Polish  miner  in 
Wilkes-Barre,  a  Negro  lawyer  in  Philadelphia,  a  Jewish 
peddler  in  San  Antonio,  and  an  Irish  or  a  German  saloon 
keeper  in  New  York.  This  composite,  with  thousands  of 
subtypes,  is  the  American  common  people,  the  fount  of  the 
confused  American  public  opinion,  the  potentially  directive 
force  of  American  life. 

But  the  question  which  presented  itself  at  the  beginning 
presents  itself  anew  and  with  redoubled  force.  "Can  these 
potentially  democratic  masses  unite  ?  "  Will  the  Maine  lum- 
berjack, the  Negro  lawyer,  the  German  saloon  keeper,  the 
Montana  farmer  —  men  of  different  race,  religion,  and  lan- 
guage ;  of  different  political  traditions,  of  different  economic 
status,  of  different  social  outlook,  —  will  these  think  alike 
and  vote  together  ?  Can  a  group  with  widely  diverse  inter- 
ests so  compromise  conflicting  claims  within  the  group  as  to 
unite  an  effective  majority,  and  thus  compel  a  permanent 
victory  ? 

This  task  of  compromising  conflicting  interests,  and  con- 
flicting sentiments  and  outlooks,  is  the  more  difficult  because 
of  our  manifold  differences  of  race,  color,  language,  religion, 
class,  and  local  environment.    America  is  the  world's  melt- 


240  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

ing  pot,  but  the  melting  is  not  over.  Unification  is  not  com- 
plete. The  striking  Hungarian  coal  miner,  who  is  a  white 
man,  a  Catholic,  and  an  immigrant,  hates  a  native,  Protestant, 
Negro  strikebreaker  for  a  wide  variety  of  reasons.  The  con- 
stitution and  by-laws  of  one  of  our  American  trade-unions  is 
printed  in  nineteen  languages.  In  many  of  our  cities  the  at- 
tempts to  solve  the  allied  problems  of  Sunday  liquor-selling 
and  of  police  corruption  are  frustrated  by  a  deadlock  of  senti- 
ment between  two  well-intentioned,  but  opposed,  racial 
sections  of  the  community.  The  Negro  problem  still  over- 
rides all  other  problems  in  the  South,  and  many  Southern 
democrats  would  look  askance  upon  any  project  of  demo- 
cratic reform  which  seemed  even  remotely  to  threaten  the 
political,  industrial,  or  social  supremacy  of  the  white  race. 
The  creation  of  a  democratic  solidarity  is  halted  by  this  mul- 
tiplicity of  cleavages. 

In  some  respects  the  democratic  masses  are  as  much  di- 
vided among  themselves  as  are  the  distracted  races  of  the 
Austro-Hungarian  Empire,  and  the  task  of  creating  a  soli- 
darity and  of  formulating  a  democratic  program  without 
excessive  internal  friction  is  at  times  comparable  in  difficulty 
with  the  delicate  statesmanship  which  holds  together,  in  a 
tolerably  successful  union,  Germans,  Magyars,  Bohemians, 
Slovaks,  Poles,  Ruthenians,  Servians,  Italians,  Roumanians, 
and  Croats.  The  democratic  masses  are  not  uniform 
automata  with  a  tabula  rasa  for  a  brain,  but  men  of  the  widest- 
varying  prepossessions  and  the  most  divided  allegiances.  It 
is  essential  at  all  times  to  unite,  in  permanent  bonds  of  union, 
a  majority  of  these  unlike-minded  men. 

In  other  respects  Americans  are  more  inclined  to  an  ulti- 
mate solidarity  than  are  the  peoples  of  certain  European 
lands.  Our  various  languages,  unlike  those  of  Switzerland 
and  of  Austro-Hungary,  tend  to  disappear  in  the  all-absorb- 
ing English  tongue.  Our  religious  differences  are  not  ex- 
acerbated by  religious  intolerance,  and  are  mollified  by  a 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      241 

separation  of  state  and  church.  We  have  no  aristocratic 
traditions,  and  we  were,  until  recently  at  least,  what  one 
might  style  a  middle-class  nation ;  a  nation,  the  majority  of 
which  enjoyed  an  earning  power  and  possessed  an  outlook 
upon  life  comparable  to  those  of  the  middle  classes  of  the  lead- 
ing European  nations.  While  our  color  antagonism  does  not 
seem  to  abate,  while  the  cleavage  of  classes  maintains  itself 
with  the  growth  of  ever  larger  factory  populations,  there  are 
gradually  discovered  bases  upon  which  a  partial  solidarity  of 
the  people  may  be  erected. 

No  absolute  solidarity,  moreover,  is  necessary  nor,  for  that 
matter,  conceivable.     We  often  hear  the  word  solidarity 
used  in  a  sense  as  absolute  as  that  of  the  terms  of  physical 
science,  and  we  might  almost  be  led  to  believe  that  a  class 
attains  solidarity,  as  a  liquid  attains  solidity,  at  a  definite, 
predetermined  social  temperature.     But  solidarity,  though 
the  word  is  used  so  trippingly,  is  itself  a  distractingly  com- 
plex conception.     Whether  or  not  men  can  unite  depends\ 
upon  the  issue  upon  which  they  are  supposed  to  unite,    i 
There  is  a  certain  broad  religious  solidarity  among  the  Chris-  / 
tians  of  the  world,  but  among  them  are  also  the  sharpest 
of   religious    cleavages.     Our   economic    congregations   are 
equally  split  up  into  sects.     The  class-consciousness  of  the 
socialists  does  not   preserve  them  from   internal  conflicts 
over  principles  and  policies;  and  as  for  the  so-called  class- 
conscious  capitalists  —  their  solidarity  is  that  of  Yahoos. 
The   solidarity   of   trade-unionists,    although   indisputal 
does  not  avert  jurisdictional  disputes.     Solidarity  strength- 
ens as  the  group  narrows,  and  weakens  as  the  group  widens. 
Solidarity  strengthens  as  the  issue  narrows,  and  weakens  as 
the  issue  widens.     Solidarity  is  effected  more  easily  for  ideals/ 
than  for  the  means  to  attain  those  ideals,  more  easily  for  the 
general  goal  than  for  the  specific  plan.     Solidarity  is  not  a 
thing  constant  and  invariable.     It  is  a  resultant  of  attracting 
and  repelling  forces.     It  is  a  fluctuating  quality  depending 


242  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

upon  fundamental  causes  and  upon  transient  phenomena. 
Solidarity  exists,  and  its  existence  is  the  vital  fact  of  social 
life,  but  nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  an  absolute  solidarity, 
or  an  absolute  lack  of  solidarity.  Solidarity  grows  and  de- 
clines, flows  and  ebbs,  becomes  greater  and  smaller.  Solidar- 
ity is  relative,  not  absolute. 

Were  the  solidarity  of  the  plutocracy  greater  than  it  is, 
that  of  the  democracy  would  needs  also  be  greater.  In 
the  matter  of  solidarity,  the  plutocracy  has  the  dual  advan- 
tage of  being  small  and  rich.  Men  unite  more  easily  in  a 
parlor  than  in  an  amphitheater,  and  money  remains  one  of 
the  most  powerful  of  social  cements.  And  yet  the  plutocracy 
is  not,  and  never  has  been,  a  complete  unit.  ^ 

There  are  to-day  cross-lines  of  interest  in  the  plutocracy 
which  make  some  of  its  constituent  groups  at  most  lukewarm  / 
adherents  of  rival  groups.     There  is  never  a  perfect  "com-  ( 
munity  of  interest,"  never  a  final  division  of  the  field,  never  \ 
a  stable  equilibrium  in  our  gigantic,  dynamic  national  busi-/ 
ness.     Controllers  of  hundreds  of  millions  still  fight  with  one 
another  as  two  men  may  fight  for  a  job.     It  was  the  mutual 
jealousy  of  two  financial  interests  which  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
insurance  bag,  and  stolen  goods  have  more  than  once  been 
returned  by  financial  Titans  who  failed  to  get  their  share  of 
the  "swag."     The  plutocracy,  like  the  democracy,  is  in  pro- 
cess of  becoming  one.     It  is  not  yet  one. 

As  wealth  accumulates,  moreover,  a  cleavage  of  sentiment 
widens  between  the  men  who  are  getting  rich  and  the  men 
who  are  rich.  The  old  Cincinnati  distinction  between  the 
"stick-'ems"  (the  actual  pork-packers)  and  the  rich  "stuck- 
'ems"  is  to-day  reflected  in  the  difference  between  the  retired 
millionaires  of  New  York  and  the  millionaires,  in  process  or 
hope,  of  Cleveland,  Portland,  Los  Angeles,  or  Denver.  The 
gilt-edged  millionaire  bondholder  of  a  standard  railroad  has 
only  a  partial  sympathy  with  timber  thieves,  though  his 
own  fortune  may  have  originated  a  few  generations  ago  in 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      243 

railroad- wrecking  or  the  slave  and  Jamaica  rum  trade ;  while 
the  cultured  descendants  of  cotton  manufacturers  resent 
the  advent  into  their  society  of  the  man  who  has  made  his 
"pile"  in  the  recent  buying  or  selling  of  franchises.  Once 
wealth  is  sanctified  by  hoary  age  —  and  in  this  mellowing 
process  a  score  of  years  in  America  exceeds  a  cycle  of  Cathay 
—  it  tends  to  turn  quite  naturally  against  new  and  evil  ways 
of  wealth  getting,  the  expedients  of  prospective  social  climb- 
ers. The  old  wealth  is  not  a  loyal  ally  in  the  battle  for  the 
plutocracy ;  it  inclines,  if  not  to  democratic,  at  least  to  mildly 
reformatory,  programs.  The  wealth  of  New  York  City  — 
that  final  storage-house  of  certificates  of  ownership  — 
trickles  by  the  tens  of  millions  into  works  of  social  progress. 
The  "stuck-'ems"  dull  the  edge  of  their  animosity  against 
democratic  programs ;  the  battle  between  the  plutocracy  and 
the  democracy,  which  furiously  rages  in  the  cities  where 
wealth  is  being  actually  fought  for,  becomes  somewhat 
gentler  in  those  cities  where  bodies  of  accumulated  wealth 
exercise  a  moderating  influence.  Inheritance  works  in  the 
same  direction.  Once  wealth  is  separated  from  its  original 
accumulator,  it  slackens  its  advocacy  of  its  method  of 
accumulation.  The  plutocracy  ceases  to  be  a  unit  in  de- 
fense.1 

Nor  is  the  democracy,  though  many-minded,  absolutely 

1  When  we  consider  not  groups  but  individuals,  the  solidarity  of  the 
plutocracy  is  even  less  perfect.  In  the  broadest  sense  of  the  word,  the 
recruiting  ground  of  the  democratic  army  is  the  entire  population.  No 
man  is  too  rich  or  too  poor,  too  good  or  too  bad,  to  be  absolutely  and  for- 
ever immune  from  this  moral  conscription.  Although  the  main  body  of 
the  democratic  army  comes  (and  will  doubtless  continue  to  come)  from 
men  intelligent  enough  to  perceive  their  benefit  (either  as  members  of  their 
group  or  as  members  of  society)  from  proposed  democratic  changes,  still 
there  are  always  thousands  of  men  and  women  who,  though  they  profit 
by  present  inequalities  and  maladjustments,  are  opposed  to  their  continu- 
ance. Ultra-wealthy  men,  taken  to  our  financial  mountain  tops  and  shown 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  cannot  always  be  bribed  to  silence  or  conniv- 
ance, however  large  their  share  of  the  social  surplus.  Occasionally  a  rich 
young  man  sells  all  that  he  has  and  becomes  an  agitator. 


244  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

without  unity.  The  various  democratic  groups  have  two 
chief  elements  of  solidarity:  a  common  antagonism  to  the 
plutocracy,  and  a  common  interest  in  the  social  surplus. 

In  intercourse  among  social  groups,  as  in  intercourse 
among  men,  a  common  antagonism  may  be  the  beginning  of 
a  mutual  understanding.  Groups  repelling  the  same  group 
tend  to  attract  each  other. 

The  plutocracy  is  the  chief  objective  of  our  social  agitation. 
It,  and  it  alone,  unites  in  opposition  factory  workers,  farm- 
ers, shopkeepers,  professional  men.  The  plutocracy  creates 
between  the  few  and  the  many  a  cleavage  which  for  the 
time  being  obscures  all  other  divisions.1 

Not  all  our  antagonism  to  the  plutocracy  is  based  upon  an 
intelligent  study  of  causes.  Much  of  it  is  merely  an  instinc- 
tive anger,  not  free  from  considerations  on  a  low  plane.  Much 
is  exaggerated,  wrong-headed,  puerile,  even  insincere.  Envy, 
hatred,  and  uncharitableness  walk  arm  in  arm  with  a  flaming 
altruism.  Our  antipathy  is  a  curious  compound  of  good  and 
evil  motives,  of  wisdom  and  ignorance.  But  society  is  not 
squeamish  in  its  selection  of  methods ;  and  as  for  wisdom, 
social  groups,  like  individuals,  allege  the  most  foolish  of 
reasons  for  the  sanest  of  actions. 

The  most  curious  factor  in  this  antagonism  is  that  an  in- 
creasing bitterness  is  felt  by  a  majority  which  is  not  worse 
but  better  off  than  before.  This  majority  suffers  not  an 
absolute  decline  but  a  relatively  slower  growth.  It  objects 
that  the  plutocracy  grows  too  fast ;  that  in  growing  so  rapidly 
it  squeezes  its  growing  neighbors.  Growth  is  right  and 
proper,  but  there  is,  it  is  alleged,  a  rate  of  growth  which  is 
positively  immoral.2 

1  There  would  to-day  be  a  sharper  antagonism  between  country  and 
city  over  the  prices  of  meat  but  for  the  Meat  Trust,  which,  not  unprofitably, 
acts  as  a  buffer. 

2  This  attitude  of  the  people  is  not  unlike  that  of  Bill  Lizard  in  "Alice 
in  Wonderland.'' 


\ 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      245 

It  is  urged  against  the  plutocracy  that,  because  of  its 
growth,  it  subjects  an  increasing  number  of  people  to  a  pres- 
sure to  which  they  are  becoming  increasingly  sensitive. 

This  pressure  is  not  for  the  most  part  the  pang  of  hunger. 
Our  society  is  too  well  padded  for  that.  It  is  a  subtler  pres- 
sure on  a  higher  economic  plane.  In  the  plutocratic  edifice 
the  ceiling  is  too  low  for  the  growing  people. 

To  a  considerable  extent  the  plutocracy  is  hated  not  for 
what  it  does,  but  for  what  it  is.  Though  there  have  been 
enough  well-attested  cases  of  tax-dodging,  bribing,  franchise- 
grabbing,  and  other  sins  of  great  corporations,  the  popular 
antagonism  lies  deeper  than  a  condemnation  of  individual 
offenses.  More  and  more  the  growing  opposition  attaches 
itself  to  "good"  as  well  as  "bad  trusts,"  to  the  system  which 
produces  trusts,  and  to  the  conditions  which  produce  the 
system,  rather  than  to  the  men,  good  and  bad,  who  are  more 
or  less  fortuitously  the  representatives  of  the  trust.  After 
all,  though  some  of  our  wisest  political  moralists  proclaim 
that  "sin  is  always  personal,"  there  exist,  in  many  indus- 
tries, conditions  (hitherto  permitted  by  us)  which  force  men 
in  certain  positions  either  to  sin  or  to  surrender  their  places 
to  men  who  will.  In  such  cases  it  is  the  system  that  sins,  or 
it  is  we  who  sin,  rather  than  the  individual  who  has  been 
bribed  by  a  high  salary  to  risk  a  jail  sentence.  The  Amer- 
ican people  are  looking  beyond  the  titular  offender  in  the 
/earch  for  a  greater  anonymous  culprit. 
From  a  more  personal  point  of  view,  it  is  the  mere  existence 
of  a  plutocracy,  the  mere  "being"  of  our  wealthy  contempo- 
^raries,  that  is  the  main  offense.  Our  over-moneyed  neigh- 
bors cause  a  relative  deflation  of  our  personalities.  Of 
course,  in  the  consumption  of  wealth,  as  in  its  production, 
there  exist  "non-competitive  groups,"  and  a  two-thousand- 
dollar-a-year  man  need  not  spend  like  a  Gould  or  a  Gug- 
genheim. Everywhere,  however,  we  meet  the  million- 
aire's good  and  evil  works,  and  we  seem  to  resent  the  one 


246  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

as  much  as  the  other.  Our  jogging  horses  are  passed  by 
their  high-power  automobiles.  We  are  obliged  to  take  their 
dust.1 

By  setting  the  pace  for  a  frantic  competitive  consumption, 
our  infinite  gradations  in  wealth  (with  which  gradations 
the  plutocracy  is  inevitably  associated)  increase  the  general 
social  friction  and  produce  an  acute  social  irritation.  There 
was  ostentatious  spending  before  the  plutocratic  period,  as 
there  will  be  after,  for  display  is  an  inveterate  form  of  indi- 
viduation, older  than  humanity.  Our  plutocracy,  however, 
intent  upon  socially  isolating  itself  and  possessing  no  title 
to  precedence  other  than  the  visible  possession  of  money, 
makes  of  this  competitive  consumption  a  perennial  handicap- 
race  of  spenders.  We  are  developing  new  types  of  desti- 
}K  "tutes  —  the  automobileless,  the  yachtless,  the  Newport- 
\  cottageless.  The  subtlest  of  luxuries  become  necessities, 
and  their  loss  is  bitterly  resented.  The  discontent  of  to-day 
reaches  very  high  in  the  social  scale. 

This  competitive  consumption  is  so  graduated  that  it 
reaches  down  from  group  to  group,  and  does  much  to  de- 
civilize  our  whole  society.  Not  only  do  multimillionaires 
"buy  away"  the  best  commodities  and  services  in  the  market 
(from  January  strawberries  to  French  chauffeurs) ;  not  only 
do  they,  with  their  high  tips  and  loose  purses,  "spoil  Europe  " 
(for  groups,  which  are  trying  to  "spoil  Europe"  for  other 
groups,  and  so  ad  infinitum),  but  they  start  up  similar,  if 
more  modest,  ostentations  on  the  social  planes  below.  Every- 
where people  are  buying  articles  which  have  the  sole  merit  of 
being  inimitable  —  but  which  are  nevertheless  imitated. 
Everywhere  there  is  a  war  between  "the  observed"  and  "the 
observers,"  a  war  as  ceaseless  and  as  costly  as  that  between 

1  The  automobile,  although  in  process  of  democratization,  seems  in  a 
curious  way  typical  of  our  plutocracy.  This  is  perhaps  because  of  its 
speed,  power,  noise,  and  dust ;  its  clumsy  ease,  its  shrieking  modernity, 
its  essential  practicality,  its  calm  assumption  of  the  middle  of  the  road. 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      247 

armor  plate  and  ordnance.1  Extravagance  becomes  a  | 
cult;  reasoned  expenditure,  an  oddity;  and  industries 
thrive  in  useless  ways,  while  the  nation  wastes  more  in  a 
contest  of  spenders  than  would  pay  for  the  proper  education 
of  millions  of  Americans.  The  end  of  it  all  is  vexation  of 
spirit.  The  sheer  juxtaposition  of  overdressed  and  under- 
clad,  of  elegant  and  genteelly  shabby,  give  to  envy,  empti- 
ness, and  a  merely  comparative  poverty  the  force  of  a  revo- 
lutionary impulse. 

The  plutocracy  is  called  to  account  for  many  evil  or 
uncomfortable  conditions  which  might  more  fairly  be 
attributed  to  our  increasing  population,  our  greater  so- 
cial density,  and  our    more  tightly  interwoven   industry. 

But  the  plutocracy  —  not  without  a  certain  show  of 
right  —  is  held  to  blame.  The  plutocracy  is  an  expanding 
force  against  which  we  strike.  It  is  a  social  obstacle  which 
cannot  but  be  hated  by  men  who  have  been  used  only 
to  natural  obstacles.  Moreover,  the  plutocracy  is  held 
responsible  for  our  economic  qualms,  because  it  is  the  visi- 
bly directive  force  of  society.  It  cannot  escape  the  lia- 
bility of  leadership. 

For  this  reason  the  plutocracy  is  charged  with  having 
ended  our  old-time  equality.  In  actual  fact  we  always  had 
less  equality  than  we  now  like  to  believe,  and,  in  any  case, 
the  plutocracy  is  itself  but  the  result  of  an  economic  evo- 
lution which  independently  produced  our  present  inequali- 
ties. Our  industrial  development  (of  which  the  trust  is 
but  one  phase)  has  been  towards  a  sharpening  of  the  angle 
of  progression.  Our  eminences  have  become  higher  and 
more  dazzling;  the  goal  has  been  raised  and  narrowed. 
Although  lawyers,  doctors,  engineers,  architects,  and  pro- 
fessional men  generally,   make  larger  salaries   than   ever 

1  It  was  less  a  paradox  than  a  social  dissection  when  an  American  wit 
praised  a  certain  New  York  hotel  because  it  gave  "  exclusiveness  "  to  the 
masses. 


248  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

before,  the  earning  of  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year 
by  one  lawyer  impoverishes  by  comparison  the  thousands 
of  lawyers  who  scrape  along  on  a  thousand  a  year.  The 
widening  of  the  competitive  field  has  widened  the  varia- 
tion and  has  sharpened  the  contrast  between  success  and 
failure,  with  a  resulting  inequality  and  discontent. 

Americans  have  never  worshiped  a  rigid  equality  of 
wealth.  They  have  always  been  willing  to  condone  any 
inequality  which  was  measurable,  which  could  be  overcome 
in  a  lifetime,  which  represented,  or  might  represent,  superior 
attainments  of  the  wealthier.  But  present  inequalities 
differ  so  widely  in  degree  from  our  old  inequalities  as  to 
differ  in  kind.  The  rich  are  so  rich  that  they  can  hardly 
help  growing  richer.  A  multimillionaire  may  be  dissipated, 
lazy,  imbecile,  spendthrift,  and  yet  automatically  he  gains 
more  in  a  month  than  the  average  man  earns  in  a  lifetime. 
The  very  wealthy,  irrespective  of  brains  or  manners,  are 
sought  out  in  business  and  social  intercourse.  They  are 
able  to  grant  favors,  to  wreak  vengeance,  to  compel  the 
adherence  of  other  menNjThey  can  even  afford  to  have 
^  their  crimes  committed  for  them.    V 

The  forces  which  give  rise  to  the  plutocracy  also  give 
rise  to  a  certain  circumscription  of  industrial  opportunity. 
The  enterprising,  individualistic  American  resents  his 
inability  to  go  into  the  steel  or  oil  business  "for  himself,' ' 
even  though  he  may  be  better  off  as  an  employee  of  the 
Steel  Corporation  or  the  Standard  Oil  Company.  Trades- 
men attribute  all  their  economic  ills  to  department  stores, 
mail-order  houses,  and  big  trusts.  The  small  retailer  is  per- 
haps less  injured  by  the  competition  of  department  stores 
than  by  the  natural  overcrowding  of  his  business.  If  the 
United  Cigar  Stores  were  to  retire  from  the  retail  tobacco 
business,  their  place  would  be  immediately  taken  by  thou- 
sands of  new  competitors,  and  the  average  cigar  dealer 
would  be  but  little  better  off,  except  as  to  his  chance  of 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      249 

ultimately  going  to  the  top.  The  retail  tobacconist  has 
suffered  a  reduction  less  in  income  than  in  outlook.  His 
horizon  has  been  narrowed.  He  may  have  as  much  money 
in  the  cash  drawer,  but  he  is  poorer  in  hopes.  The  result- 
ing discontent  is  leveled  against  the  plutocracy,  the  visible 
beneficiary  of  the  economic  trend. 

Thus  the  plutocracy  is  more  and  more  opposed  by  an 
ever  larger  number  of  social  groups  and  individuals,  not 
only  for  what  it  does  and  for  what  it  is,  but  for  the  deeper 
economic  tendencies  which  it  represents.  Different  men  / 
are  arrayed  against  the  plutocracy  for  different  reasons. 
While,  however,  such  common  hostility  is  a  sufficient 
stimulus  to  an  aggressive  campaign,  it  is  not  a  basis  broad, 
enough  for  a  constructive  program.  Unless  the  opponents 
of  the  plutocracy  have  some  common  positive  aim,  their 
antagonism  will  dissipate  itself  in  abortive  assaults  and 
waste  heat,  without  permanent  influence  upon  social  con- 
ditions. yS* 

There  exists,  however,  such  a  common  aim.     This  aim, 
which  holds  together  the  opponents  of  an  intrenched  plu-^ 
tocracy,  is  the  attainment  of  a  common  share  in  the  con-  / 
quered  continent,  in  the  material  and  moral  accumulations: 
of  a  century.     When  the  trust  raises  prices,  obtains  valu- 
able franchises  or  public  lands,   escapes  taxation,  secures 
bounties,  lowers  wages,  evades  factory  laws,  or  makes  other 
profitable  maneuvers,  it  is  diverting  a  part  of  the  social  sur- 
plus from  the  general  community  to  itself.     The  public  pays 
the  higher  prices,  loses  the  franchises  or  lands,  pays  higher 
taxes,  suffers  in  wages  (and  pays  for  the  ill  effects  of  low 
wages),  and  generally  makes  up  dollar  for  dollar  for  all  such 
gains.     In  all  these  things  the  people  have  a  perceivable  in- 
terest.    The  great  mass  is  injured  in  its  capacity  of  wage 
earner,  salary  earner,  taxpayer  and  consumer. 

Of  these  capacities  that  of  the  consumer  is  the  most 
universal,  since  even  those  who  do  not  earn  wages  or  pay 


250  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

direct  taxes  consume  commodities.  In  America  to-day  the 
unifying  economic  force,  about  which  a  majority,  hostile 
to  the  plutocracy,  is  forming,  is  the  common  interest 
of  the  citizen  as  a  consumer  of  wealth,  and  incidentally 
as  an  owner  of  (undivided)  national  possessions.  The 
producer  (who  is  only  the  consumer  in  another  r61e) 
is  highly  differentiated.  He  is  banker,  lawyer,  soldier, 
tailor,  farmer,  shoeblack,  messenger  boy.  He  is  capitalist, 
workman,  money  lender,  money  borrower,  urban  worker, 
rural  worker.  The  consumer,  on  the  other  hand,  is  undif- 
ferentiated. All  men,  women,  and  children  who  buy  shoes 
(except  only  the  shoe  manufacturer)  are  interested  in  cheap 
good  shoes.  The  consumers  of  most  articles  are  over- 
whelmingly superior  in  numbers  to  the  producers. 

Despite  this  overwhelming  superiority  in  numbers,  the 
consumer,  finding  it  difficult  to  organize,  has  often  been 
worsted  in  industrial  battles.  In  our  century-long  tariff 
contests,  a  million  inaudible  consumers  have  often  counted 
less  than  has  a  petty  industry  in  a  remote  district.  The 
consumer  thought  of  himself  as  a  producer,  and  he  united 
only  with  men  of  his  own  productive  group.  For  a  time 
there  was  a  certain  reason  for  such  an  alignment.  It  was 
a  period  of  falling  prices,  of  severe  competition,  in  which  the 
whole  organization  of  industry  favored  the  consumer.  In 
fact,  the  unorganized  and  ruthless  consumer  was  blamed  — 
and  rightly  blamed  (as  he  is  still  rightly  blamed  to-day) 
—  for  many  of  the  evils  of  industry.  The  curse  of  the  sweat- 
shop and  of  the  starving  seamstress,  sewing  by  candle- 
light, was  fairly  brought  to  the  doors  of  the  bargain-hunt- 
ing housewife.  The  consumer,  though  acting  singly,  felt 
himself  secure. 

Even  when  prices  began  to  rise,  consumers  remained 
quiescent.  There  was  greater  difficulty  in  resisting  price 
advances,  because  the  loss  to  each  individual  from  each 
increase  was  so  infinitesimal.     The  reverse  of  the  over- 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      251 

whelming  numbers  of  the  consumers  was  the  small  individ- 
ual interest  of  each  in  each  transaction.  Wages  affected  a 
man  far  more  sensibly  than  did  prices.  If  a  motorman's 
wages  were  reduced  one  cent  an  hour  he  might  lose  thirty 
dollars  a  year;  a  rise  of  ten  cents  in  the  price  of  shoes, 
on  the  other  hand,  meant  a  loss  of,  at  most,  two  dollars 
a  year.  A  man  could  not  spend  his  lifetime  fighting  ten- 
cent-increases.  The  cure  for  high  prices  was  high  wages. 
As  prices  continue  to  rise,  however,  as  a  result  (among 
other  causes  *)  of  our  gradually  entering  into  a  monopoly 
period,  a  new  insistence  is  laid  upon  the  rights  of  the  con- 
sumer, and  political  unity  is  based  upon  him.  Where 
formerly  production  seemed  to  be  the  sole  governing  eco- 
nomic fact  of  a  man's  life,  to-day  many  producers  have 
no  direct  interest  in  their  product.  It  is  a  very  attenuated 
interest  which  the  Polish  slag-worker  has  in  the  duty  on 
steel  billets,  but  the  Polish  slag-worker  and  the  Boston 
salesgirl  and  the  Oshkosh  lawyer  have  a  similar  interest 
(and  a  common  cause  of  discontent)  as  consumers  of  the 
national  wealth.  The  universality  of  the  rise  of  prices  has . 
begun  to  affect  the  consumer  as  though  he  were  attacked 
by  a  million  gnats.  The  chief  offense  of  the  trust  becomes  , 
its  capacity  to  injure  the  consumer.  Therefore  the  con- 
sumer, disinterred  from  his  grave,  reappears  in  the  politi- 
cal arena  as  the  "common  man,"  the  "plain  people,"  the 
"strap-hanger,"  "the  man  on  the  street,"  "the  taxpayer," 
the  "ultimate  consumer."  2  Men  who  voted  as  producers 
are  now  voting  as  consumers. 

1  Among  these  other  causes  are  the  increasing  pressure  of  our  population 
upon  our  available  natural  resources,  the  increased  cheapness  of  gold  and, 
in  individual  cases,  a  better  quality  of  goods,  a  more  frequent  and  quicker 
delivery  under  more  difficult  conditions,  and  generally  a  better  service  re- 
quired by  more  exigent  consumers. 

2  It  is  significant  that  none  of  these  phrases  gives  any  inkling  as  to  the 
man's  trade,  calling,  or  position  in  the  world  of  production,  whether  farmer 
or  factory  hand,  employer  or  employed. 


252  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

We  are  now  beginning  to  appeal  to  the  "  ultimate  con- 
sumer/ '  the  man  who  actually  eats,  wears,  or  uses  the  arti- 
cle. A  generation  ago  we  legislated  for  the  penultimate 
shopkeeper,  or  the  ante-penultimate  manufacturer.  Our 
contest  for  railroad  rate  regulation  was  formerly  waged 
in  the  interest  of  the  producer  or  shipper,  and  not  primarily 
in  the  interest  of  the  consumer.  The  rates  in  question  were 
freight,  not  passenger,  rates,1  and  the  great  problem  was 
not  so  much  low  freight  rates  (which  more  immediately 
benefited  the  consumer)  as  equal  freight  rates,  in  which 
the  competing  manufacturer  was  primarily  interested.2 

It  is  difficult  for  the  consumer  to  act  industrially  in  con- 
cert. The  "rent  strikes"  on  the  East  Side  of  New  York 
have  always  been  unsuccessful.  The  meat  strikes  have 
been  equally  without  result.  The  work  of  the  Consumers* 
Leagues  has  been  chiefly  a  humanitarian  labor  for  the  bene- 
fit of  producers,  and  we  have  never  successfully  developed 
in  America  great  cooperative  associations  of  workingmen 
consumers,  like  those  of  England,  Belgium,  France,  and 
Germany.  The  appeal  to  the  consumer  has  therefore  been 
made  on  the  political  field. 

To-day  the  consumer  is  represented  on  party  platforms. 
It  is  in  his  interest  that  a  "tariff  revision  downward"  is 
demanded.  Where  one  formerly  heard  in  tariff  discussions 
of  the  necessity  of  protecting  the  workingman  from  "the 
pauper  labor  of  Europe,"  one  now  hears  of  the  rights  of 
the  "ultimate  consumer."  Where,  in  discussions  of  land 
policy,  one  formerly  heard  of  the  need  of  giving  the  land 
to  the  actual  settler  (or  producer),  one  now  hears  of  pre- 

1  Passenger  rates  are  usually  paid  immediately  by  the  "ultimate  con- 
sumer" ;  the  freight  rate  is  paid,  in  the  first  instance,  by  the  manufacturer 
or  shipper. 

2  Similarly,  in  the  England  of  1846,  cheap  corn  was  secured  not  primarily 
in  the  interests  of  the  people  who  ate  the  corn,  but  in  that  of  the  manufac- 
turers who  paid  the  wages  that  bought  the  corn.  The  lowered  price  of 
bread  meant  simply  a  lower  cost  of  manufacturing  cottons  and  woolens. 


THE  GATHERING  FORCES  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      253 

venting  trusts  from  monopolizing  mines,  forests,  and  water 
sites,  and  thus  raising  the  prices  (to  the  consumer)  of  coal, 
wood,  light,  heat,  and  power.  Our  municipal  ownership 
is  in  the  interest  of  joint  consumers,  and  more  and  more 
our  railroad  regulation  is  aiming  at  cheaper  transportation. 

^  To  secure  their  rights  as  consumers,  as  well  as  to  secure 

l  other  economic  interests,  less  in  common,  the  people  unite 
as  citizens  to  obtain  a  sensitive  popular  government.     They 

"^-Attain  to  a  certain  political  as  well  as  economic  solidarity. 
This  solidarity  is  by  no  means  a  complete  unification  of 
interest.  There  remain  differences  in  agreement  and  dis- 
cords in  harmony.  The  middle  classes  are  as  much  opposed 
to  the  trade-union  as  are  the  trusts,  and  the  professional 
man  is  as  anxious  to  secure  a  docile  and  cheap  housemaid 
as  the  farmer  is  desirous  of  getting  high  prices  for  his  wheat 
and  paying  low  wages  to  his  farm  laborer. 

The  elements  of  solidarity,  however,  being  found  in  a 
common  hostility  to  the  plutocracy  and  a  common  interest 
in  the  social  surplus,  it  becomes  possible  gradually  so  to 
compromise  conflicting  interests  within  the  group  as  to 
secure  a  united  front  against  a  common  enemy.     The  regu- 

" — lation  of  railroads  in  the  interest  of  consumer  and  farmer 
may  be  extended  to  the  protection  of  the  railroad  worker ; 
the  conservation  of  natural  resources  may  be  linked  to  a 
similar  policy  of  human  conservation,  to  a  campaign 
against  destitution,  and  to  a  progressive  labor  policy  which 
will  insure  the  health,  safety,  comfort,  and  leisure  of  all 
workers.  By  such  internal  adjustments  within  the  wide 
democratic  army  the  possibility  of  a  sufficient,  permanent 
solidarity  is  given. 

There  is  no  evidence  that  the  great  army  of  potential 
democrats  agree  upon  a  clear-cut  policy  with  regard  to  the 
solution  of  our  economic  problems.  There  is  no  reason  to 
believe  that  they  will  ever  agree  in  detail.  But  in  vari- 
ous tentative  and   semiconscious  ways  they  have  already 


254  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

through  political  organizations,  non-political  or- 
ganizations, and  through  expressions  of  public  opinion,  to 
unite  in  formulating  progressive  plans.  This  coalescence  is 
expressed  in  many  ways,  by  a  vote,  by  a  storm  of  newspaper 
criticism,  by  the  popularity  of  a  democratic  leader.  This" 
solidarity  in  formation  does  not  express  itself  always  on 
the  same  subject,  nor  does  it  always  express  itself  consist- 
ently, but  gradually  it  approves,  one  after  another,  a  se- 
ries of  projects  which,  pieced  together,  constitute  a  demo- 
cratic program.  The  fact  that  democracy,  in  so  far  as  it 
has  been  hitherto  approximated  in  America,  has  been  at- 
tained not  at  one  stroke,  nor  by  one  policy,  but  by  a  series 
of  gradual  and  not  always  logical  approaches,  makes  it 
appear  possible  that  out  of  the  great  inchoate  democratic 
mass  of  the  community,  with  enlistments  from  below 
and  with  defections  to  the  class  above,  will  come  the  mo- 
tive force  to  revolutionize  society,  to  displace  our  present 
duality  of  resplendent  plutocracy  and  crude  ineffective 
democracy  with  a  single,  broad,  intelligent,  socialized,  and 
victorious  democracy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   TACTICS   OF  THE   DEMOCRACY 

THREE  primary  factors  determine  in  the  main  the  tac- 
tics and  methods  of  the  American  democracy.  The 
first  of  these  factors  is  the  complex  of  traditions,  descended 
to  us  from  the  pioneer  period.  The  second  is  our  growing 
social  surplus.  The  third  is  the  wide  diversity  among  the 
groups  striving  for  democracy. 

Because  of  our  American  traditions,  our  democrats  are 
more  likely  to  proceed  in  a  tentative,  experimental,  and 
rather  illogical  way;  to  sail  forward  by  tacking;  to  break 
as  little  and  as  gradually  as  possible  with  our  ingrained 
individualism.  Americans  are  not  abstract,  uncompromis- 
ing thinkers.  They  are  not  like  the  men  of  the  French 
Revolution,  who  would  have  dared  to  abolish  the  universe 
and  recreate  it  on  the  morrow.  We  shall  probably  seek  our 
salvation,  to  the  limited  extent  still  possible,  outside  of 
the  state,  and  we  shall  doubtless  "try  out"  governmental 
novelties  in  a  few  Western  commonwealths  (our  political 
experiment  stations)  before  applying  them  in  the  grand 
manner  to  the  whole  nation.  Because  of  our  traditions, 
we  are  likely  to  make  changes  by  indirection  and  to  pre- 
serve the  form  while  altering  the  substance. 

Our  wealth,  actual  and  potential,  reenforces  these  tend- 
encies. We  live  in  a  civilization  where  political  animos- 
ities are  not  exacerbated  by  the  actual  hunger  of  the  main 
bodies  of  contestants.  The  struggle  is  not  less  intense 
(just  as  prize  fighting  is  not  less  intense  because  gloves 
have  taken  the  place  of  bare  knuckles),  but  the  improved, 
and  above  all  the  improvable,  economic  status  of  the  masses, 

255 


256  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

.tends  to  make  their  action  more  confident,  compromis- 
/  ing,  and  pacific.  Our  economic  development,  by  giving 
~~some  little  wealth  to  so  large  a  majority,  binds  over  all 
parties  to  keep  the  peace.  It  exacts  hostages  to  social 
order.  It  removes  the  incitement  to  the  worst  forms  of 
social  recklessness.  Without  recklessness,  because  not  with- 
out hope,  with  a  status  to  be  bettered  and  with  political 
rights  with  which  to  better  it,  the  people,  growing  in  power 
and  discontent,  can  move  forward  gradually  and  quietly 
against  the  intrenchments  of  the  plutocracy. 

The  many-sidedness  of  the  democratic  masses  exerts 
an  identical  influence.  A  movement  backed  up  by  a  ma- 
jority of  the  voters  is  far  more  likely  to  proceed  along  con- 
stitutional and  legal  lines  (making  its  constitutions  and 
laws  as  it  goes)  than  would  be  a  movement  backed  up 
only  by  the  industrial  wageworkers  without  property,  and 
opposed  by  all  other  elements  of  the  population.  Such 
a  majority,  composed  of  diverse  groups  with  varying  inter- 
ests, is  more  indirect,  conciliatory,  compromising,  and 
evolutionary  in  action  than  would  be  a  single  homogene- 
ous class,  with  clear-cut  class  interests. 

As  a  result  of  all  these  causes,  our  democracy  will  proba- 
bly not  need  to  resort  to  violence,  and  our  democratic 
transformations  may  be  carried  through  without  the  taking 
of  lives  or  the  wholesale  confiscation  of  property. 

In  all  conflicts  involving  even  the  possibility  of  change N 
in  the  social  center  of  gravity,  physical  force  still  threatens  > 
to  play  its  part.  The  state,  resting  on  soldiers  and  police- 
men, themselves  resting  (in  democratic  communities)  on 
the  acquiescence  of  the  people,  itself  embodies  this  element 
of  force,  which  is  used  legally  when  the  murderer  is  "  hanged 
by  the  neck  until  he  is  dead,"  or  illegally  when  soldiers 
are  quartered  upon  a  peaceful  population,  or  policemen 
violently  break  up  strikes  under  cover  of  preventing  vio- 
lence.    In  America  an  extra-legal  physical  force  has  often 


i 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  257 

been  appealed  to.  The  North  forcibly  nullified  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law,  as  the  South  subsequently  nullified  the  Four- 
teenth and  Fifteenth  Amendments.  To-day  lynching  and 
other  mobs  set  the  law  at  naught.  The  greater  the  polit- 
ical corruption  and  the  larger  the  rewards  of  violence,  the 
more  frequent  is  the  appeal  to  force. 

Fortunately,  in  all  advanced  nations  the  rule  of  brute 
force  in  the  fixing  of  the  balance  of  power  is  diminishing. 
As  conditions  become  more  settled,  the  physical  force  of 
the  state  becomes  so  superior  to  that  of  any  group  (not 
a  majority)  within  the  state  as  to  render  revolt  on  the 
plane  of  mere  violence  impracticable. 

In  well-organized  states  the  day  of  sporadic  uprisings, 
of  impromptu  revolutions,  is  probably  over.  The  modern 
organization  of  warfare  favors  the  status  quo.  Effective 
arms  have  become  too  costly  and  too  difficult  of  conceal- 
ment to  be  held  by  the  unorganized  people.  Barricades 
are  built  of  cobbles;  the  modern  streets  are  built  of  as- 
phalt. To-day  the  deadly,  state-owned  cannon  would 
sweep  through  the  wide,  straight,  unobstructed  avenues, 
as  the  old  cannon  could  not  through  the  narrow,  crooked, 
barricaded  lanes  of  the  olden  city.  The  organized  powers 
in  the  community  hold  the  railroad,  telegraph,  and  tele- 
phone. The  state  fights  on  inside  lines.  It  can  concen- 
trate all  loyal  forces  against  a  disaffected  minority.  It 
can  mobilize  millions  in  the  briefest  time. 

It  is  becoming  recognized,  also,  that  violence  is  a  clumsy, 
two-edged  sword,  which  ultimately  destroys  him  who  wields 
it.  A  social  group,  compelled  to  use  force  against  other 
sections  of  the  community,  finds  itself  a  prey  to  the  most  vio- 
lent of  its  own  members.  Violence  is  not  constructive.  It 
is  ugly.  It  alienates  supporters  and  unites  opponents, 
for,  after  all,  civilization,  with  all  its  residual  brutality, 
is  squeamish  about  the  sight  of  blood.  Finally,  we  are 
coming  into  an  intellectual,  statistical  age,  where  men  know 


258  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

beforehand  when  they  are  beaten;  where  potential  force, 
or  the  show  of  force,  takes  the  place  of  force  itself.  Physi- 
cal force  remains  always  in  the  background  as  the  ulti- 
mate determinant  —  as  the  weapon  which  must  be  used 
when  votes  and  ideas  fail,  when  a  people  without  rights  are 
opposed,  as  in  Russia  to-day,  by  a  clique  without  vision, 
conscience,  or  humanity.  In  civilized  communities,  how- 
ever, and  especially  in  communities  already  advancing  in 
democracy,  force  becomes  of  less  immediate  moment. 

Our  national  wealth,  present  and  prospective,  is  our 
chief  guarantee  that  the  social  problem  will  not  needs  be 
resolved  by  a  thrust  of  the  sword.  The  richer  the  commu- 
nity, the  greater  is  the  cost  of  internal  strife,  and  the  more 
futile  any  policy  which  drives  men  to  arms.  The  vastness 
of  the  wealth  to  be  conserved  makes  even  our  revolutionaries 
somewhat  conservative,  for  there  is  small  wisdom  in  lay- 
ing waste  a  city  in  which  the  victors  must  forevermore 
dwell.  The  victorious  socialists  of  Milwaukee,  but  recently 
dreaded  as  iconoclasts,  turn  out  to  be  constructive,  con- 
ciliatory, Chesterfieldian,  and  enormously  effective.  Our 
most  possessing  classes  are  equally  afraid  of  violence,  not 
because  it  is  likely  to  be  successful,  but  because  of  the 
damage  which  would  be  inflicted  before  the  bull  could  be 
driven  from  the  china  shop.  They  are  therefore  willing 
(as  they  are  also  able)  to  insure  against  the  utter  reckless- 
ness of  misery  by  allaying  the  worst  evils  of  poverty;  just 
as  the  democratic  masses  are  willing  (and  able)  to  refrain 
from  recklessness  because  of  the  counter-recklessness  which 
it  would  provoke,  and  because  of  the  injury  to  their  ultimate 
possessions  which  it  would  inflict. 

In  America  we  can  for  the  time  being  lay  this  specter  of 
violence.  What  might  happen  if  certain  nation-debas- 
ing tendencies,  now  at  work,  were  to  overcome  counteract- 
ing forces,  what  might  happen  if  misery  and  oppression 
grew  with  the  growth  of  wealth,  is  another  question.     For 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  259 

the  day  it  is  easier  to  vote  and  easier  to  get  your  vote  counted 
than  it  is  to  fight,  and  curative  forces  are  leading  away  from 
the  sharp  antagonism  which  would  involve  an  appeal  to 
naked  force.  To-day,  when  our  soldiers  under  arms  repre- 
sent less  than  one  per  thousand  of  the  population,  when 
our  militia  are  loosely  and  not  undemocratically  organized, 
our  broader  democratic  movements  will  in  all  probability 
neither  rely  upon  force  nor  be  resisted  by  force.1 

Not  only  is  it  probable  (though  not  certain)  that  our 
democratic  progress  will  be  unaccompanied  by  a  clash  of 
armed*  men  but  the  process  is  also  more  likely,  because  of 
our  accumulated  wealth,  to  be  a  social  upbuilding  from 
within  rather  than  a  demolition  with  a  subsequent  recon- 
struction. It  is  common  to-day  to  see  a  vast  railway  sta- 
tion completely  rebuilt,  while,  simultaneously,  the  traffic 
is  carried  on.  So  necessary  is  continuity  when  enormous 
interests  are  involved,  that  change,  destruction,  rebuild- 
ing do  not  interfere  with  the  ordinary  conduct  of  the  busi- 
ness. Our  social  revolution  must  be  consummated  with 
a  minimum  of  shock  to  our  delicate  industrial,  political, 
and  social  machinery.  Moreover,  all  progress  must  be 
built  upon  the  foundations  of  our  stored  wealth.  Just 
as  the  Christian  churches  were  fashioned  of  the  mar- 
ble of  pagan  temples,  so  our.  new  world  must  be  built  upon 
the  accumulations  of  the  past.  Our  social  reconstruction 
must  be  effected  during  business  hours.     It  must  be  ac- 

1  The  above  statement  is,  of  course,  only  general,  and  is  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  instances  in  the  past  and  the  future,  of  the  use  of  force  by 
strikers,  by  employers,  and  by  the  State  or  nation  in  the  interest  of  em- 
ployers. In  Colorado  the  conflict  between  mine  owners  and  mine  laborers 
resulted  in  bribery,  intimidation,  assassination,  and  a  state  of  affairs  which 
might  be  likened  to  a  labor  war.  There  have  been  numerous  instances  of 
the  use  of  police,  armed  detectives,  private  constabulary,  the  militia,  and 
the  federal  troops,  against  strikers.  It  is  probable,  however,  that  the  num- 
ber of  men  killed  and  injured  during  all  the  labor  conflicts  since  the  Civil 
War  is  very  much  less  than  the  number  killed  or  maimed  every  six  months 
in  the  ordinary  legally  murderous  course  of  industry. 


260  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

companied  by  preliminary  plans,  specifications,  and  esti- 
mates of  cost.     It  must  be  gradual  and  quiet,  though  rapid. 

Nor  is  it  inevitable  that  the  progress  of  democracy  will 
involve  a  wholesale  confiscation  of  the  property  of  the  rich. 
Where  wealth  is  growing  at  a  rapid  rate,  the  multitude 
may  be  fed  without  breaking  into  the  rich  man's  granary; 
the  lowly  may  be  exalted  without  a  pecuniary  abasement 
of  those  of  high  degree. 

In  the  early  days  of  poverty  all  conflicts  meant  the  taking 
of  some  men's  property  by  others.  War  was  a  business 
for  profit,  as  were  slave-raiding  and  piracy.  The  army 
lived  on  the  spoils  of  the  enemy  or  the  lands  of  the  people 
which  it  defended.  A  palace  revolution,  an  attainder  for 
treason,  even  a  national  struggle  for  religious  supremacy, 
were  influenced  by  the  desire  to  secure  the  property  of  indi- 
viduals or  classes.  A  revolution  faced  the  necessity  of 
paying  its  way  at  the  expense  of  the  defeated. 

To-day  the  rapid  growth  of  the  national  wealth  has  cut 
the  bond  between  social  progress  and  confiscation.  Our 
hope  of  a  greater  national  wealth  is  a  promise  that  we  may 
enrich  the  whole  population  without  impoverishing  any  one. 
Compared  to  the  stupendous  totals  of  our  coming  accumu- 
lations, the  cost  of  progress  is  small.  Had  we  in  1861  paid 
dollar  for  dollar  for  the  slaves,  we  could  within  a  decade 
have  easily  extinguished  the  resulting  debt.  If  in  1880 
New  York  City  had  bought  a  few  hundred  square  miles 
of  territory  in  her  vicinity,  or  had  Pennsylvania  bought 
her  coal  mines,  or  Minnesota  her  ore  beds,  the  operation 
would  have  redounded  so  enormously  to  the  public  benefit 
as  to  have  rendered  the  alternative  of  confiscation  unthink- 
able. If  to-day  the  nation  were  to  buy  up  its  railroads  and 
run  them  efficiently,  the  mere  accretion  in  value  during 
the  next  generation  or  two  would  make  the  purchase  so 
profitable  that  the  collective  people  could  well  afford  to 
pay  a  fair  price.     So,  generally,   the  stupendous  present 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  261 

values  of  monoplies,  which  the  nation  may  in  the  near 
future  be  compelled  to  take  over,  will  seem  ridiculously 
small  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  hence.  What  Belgium, 
Portugal,  Italy,  or  Hungary, — nations  with  a  lesser  and  a 
less  sure  future, — cannot  afford  to  do,  America  is  abun- 
dantly able  to  accomplish.  The  growing  wealth  of  America 
is  sufficient  to  permit  our  social  transformations  being  car- 
ried through  with  a  minimum  of  disappointment  to  the  more 
moderate  anticipations  even  of  monopolists. 

Social  appropriation  without  confiscation,  however,  in- 
volves a  transformation  much  less  likely  to  be  violently 
resisted  and  much  more  likely  to  be  actively  welcomed. 
The  social  surplus  thus  makes  for  social  peace.  In  the 
last  analysis,  the  wars  of  all  the  ages  have  been  wars 
of  poverty.  The  dream  of  peace  between  nations,  and  of 
peace  within  nations,  did  not  flourish  until  society  had  the 
prospect  of  enough  to  go  around. 

Only  to  a  certain  extent  is  the  evolution  of  democracy^ 
in  America  a  social  conflict.     Partly  this  democracy  will 
come   automatically  through   growth   and   enlightenment ; 
partly  it  will  be  willingly  conceded;   partly  it  will  be  con- 
tested inch  by  inch.     Where  the  road  to  democracy  runs 
through  the  wide  fields  of  social  harmony  —  those  fertile 
fields  where  practically  all  social  groups  may  be  educated 
to  acknowledge  identical  interests  —  no  fighting  is  necessar^N^ 
Only  where  the  progress  is  one  in  which  the  gain  of  the  \ 
democracy  is  the  loss  of  a  privileged,  powerful  class  must     \ 
there  result  a  conflict,  allayed  by  successive  compromises,  / 
but  ultimately  fought  out  to  a  conclusion.  ^j 

These  three  elements  of  democratic  progress,  conflict, 
growth,  and  education  are  not  always  separate,  even 
in  thought.  Fighting  may  involve  growth.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  relatively  more  rapid  growth  and  a  conse- 
quent physical  crowding  out  of  rivals  is  one  form  of  con- 
flict  between   social   groups,  as   between  plants,    animals, 


262  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

and  nations.  Japan  had  to  defeat  Russia  in  order  to  grow 
large  enough  in  Korea  to  resist  Russia.  The  United  States, 
had  she  not  bought  Florida  in  1819,  would  in  the  course 
of  a  century  have  so  overgrown  the  sparse  Spanish  settle- 
ments as  to  have  made  a  continuance  of  Spanish  domination 
in  that  peninsula  unthinkable.  The  overwhelming  at  the 
polls  of  obstructive  forces  is  an  instance  of  democratic  prog- 
ress through  conflict,  as  are  also  industrial  concessions  extorted 
through  strikes.  On  the  other  hand,  we  grow  into  democ- 
racy or  are  educated  into  democracy  through  uncontested 
victories,  through  sheer  technical  progresses,  improved 
political  and  industrial  education,  through  an  increased 
capacity  for  combined  activity,  through  an  enlarged 
social  consciousness,  through  a  widened  social  outlook. 
The  mere  expansion  of  the  trade-union  *  movement  in 
England,  Germany,  and  America;  the  growth  of  the 
socialist  party  in  Germany;  the  spread  of  the  coopera- 
tive movement  in  Belgium;  the  popularization  of  edu- 
cation in  the  United  States;  the  development  in  Amer- 
ica of  a  spirit  of  insurgency  against  respectable  and  bepraised 
evils,  are  all  steps  toward  the  attainment  of  democracy, 
independently  of  the  actual  use  of  such  movements  in 
eventual  social  conflicts. 

In  a  certain  sense,  these  conflicts  themselves  constitute 
less  a  class  struggle  than  a  national  adjustment.  In  this 
adjustment  the  mutual  attractions  and  repulsions  of  social 
groups  play  their  part,  but  so  great  is  the  potential  over- 
weight ■  of  the  democratic  mass  —  once  a  strong  solidarity 
is  achieved  —  that  victory  depends  not  on  the  people's 
ability  to  fight,  but  on  their  capacity  to  unite.  What 
hampers  the  democracy  is  not  the  actual,  visible  power  of 
an  intrenched  plutocracy,  but  the  lack  of  an  intellectual 
perception  to  unite  divergent  classes ;  the  lack  of  an  emo- 
tional appeal  to  overcome  the  divisive  forces  within  the 
majority  itself.     The  democracy  is  halted  by  its  fear  that 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  263 

it  cannot  run  its  own  business ;  by  its  very  own  conserva- 
tism. It  is  this  inherent,  though  curable,  timorousness,  this 
social  paralysis,  as  well  as  a  tendency  to  split  up  into  its 
constituent  groups,  rather  than  any  outside  constraining 
force,  which  in  the  past  has  delayed  our  democratic  progress 
and  has  confined  us  to  the  ruts  of  a  traditional  thinking  and 

7  voting. 
/  The  internal  adjustment  of  the  democracy  is  a  process 

/of  uniting  groups,  by  no  means  agreed  in  the  details  of 

\what  constitutes  progress.  We  have  "semidemocrats," 
with  " leanings"  or  tendencies  toward  certain  democratic 
reforms,  but  opposed  to  others.  For  this  reason  (and  it  is 
an  outstanding  reason)  we  are  forced  to  content  ourselves 
with  half-reforms,  especially  when  the  half-successes  are  the 
earnest  of  further  successes.  Men  opposed  to  the  regula- 
tion of  corporations  will  support  ballot  reform  and  direct 
primaries,  and  men  who  would  bitterly  fight  a  progressive 
income  tax  will  support  a  corporation  law.  All  these 
" semidemocrats' '  are  utilized  by  the  advancing  demo- 
cratic movement.     Democracy  hitches  on  behind  even  when 

Vthe  wagon  does  not  go  the  whole  way. 

The  democracy  proceeds  along  a  middle  path,  which  is 

^the  line  of  least  resistance.  It  uses  broad  phrases,  vague 
enough  to  attract  by  different  hopes  men  who  are  dis- 
satisfied with  only  the  details  of  our  national  economy,  as 
well  as  those  who  wish  a  basic  change  in  business  and 
politics.  The  democracy,  seeking  ever  to  appeal  to  a 
majority,  recasts  its  doctrines  to  attain  that  majority.  It 
does  not  favor  confiscation,  because  its  own  majority  has 
property.1  But  it  does  attack  " swollen"  fortunes  (which 
belong  to  the  minority),  as  it  attacks  the  monopoly  which 

1  There  is,  of  course,  no  clear  boundary  line  to  confiscation,  and  it  is  a 
matter  of  degree  and  opinion  where  taxation,  reasonable  regulation,  or 
fair  payment  end  and  confiscation  begins.  Our  courts  have  been  wholly 
unable  to  give  any  logical  and  universally  applicable  definition  of  con- 
fiscation. 


264  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

leads  to  them,  the  "special  privilege"  which  increases  them, 
the  unequal,  or  evaded,  taxation  which  conserves  them, 
and  the  business  secrecy  and  business  oligarchy  which  make 
them  perpetual.  The  democracy  does  not  permit  the 
issue  to  become  one  between  the  propertied  and  the  un- 
propertied,  but  distinguishes  between  property  and  privilege, 
between  earned,  and  unearned,  increment;  between  legiti- 
mate investment  and  promoters'  profits. 

By  taking  this  line  of  least  resistance,  the  democracy 
finds  allies  where  a  more  uncompromising  group  would  find 
enemies.  Men  who  are  dependent  on  an  industry,  work- 
men and  stockholders  alike,  do  not  necessarily  desire  an 
autocratic  rule  within  the  industry.  The  policyholders  of 
the  great  insurance  companies  —  the  real  investors  —  are 
benefited,  not  injured,  by  an  effective  governmental  con- 
trol. In  the  same  spirit  the  democracy  stops  short,  at 
least  temporarily,  of  doing  more  than  the  immediately 
necessary.  The  government  regulates  interstate  railroad 
traffic  and  other  businesses  affected  with  a  public  interest, 
and,  as  the  need  becomes  apparent,  control  by  the  nation 
becomes  more  complete.  But  the  democracy  is  not  so 
impracticable  as  to  wish  to  regulate  the  tillage  of  the  inde- 
pendent farmer,  the  hours  of  labor  of  the  doctor  or  lawyer, 
the  capitalization  and  profits  of  the  corner  grocery  store. 
The  goal  of  the  democracy  is  a  maximum  of  control  with  a 
.minimum  of  regulation. 

In  other  words,  the  democracy,  not  being  slavishly  bound 
to  logic,  would  rather  be  successful  than  thorough.  It 
does  not  tear  up  root  and  branch,  but  merely  weeds  out 
roughly,  for  social,  like  natural,  evolution  permits  the  sur- 
vival of  harmless  rudiments.  Just  as  the  vestige  of  a  pre- 
human tail  survives  in  the  human  coccyx,  so  we  have,  and 
always  will  have,  a  social  coccyx,  a  social  vermiform  appen- 
dix, and  other  reminders  of  a  lower  past.  America  will 
always  be  a  jumble  of  old  and  new,  of  " Yankee  notions" 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  265 

in  government  and  business  and  the  political  junk  of  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  We  need  not  im- 
mediately slough  off  social  beliefs  and  institutions  when  they 
cease  to  be  visibly  useful,  just  as  we  may  still  speak  of 
Thursday  after  ceasing  to  believe  in  the  great  god  Thor.1 

In  its  gradual  and  progressive  adjustment,  the  com- 
promising and  conciliatory  democracy  enjoys  the  advantage 
of  being  opposed  by  a  cautious  plutocracy.  Just  as  the 
most  dangerous  fencer  is  the  novice  whose  feints  and  sallies 
are  unpredictable,  so  the  most  dangerous  social  opponent  is 
the  class  driven  by  ignorance  and  cowardice  into  the  most 
desperate  ventures. 

Though  the  plutocracy  is  cautious  and  comfortable,  it 
often  acts  the  r61e  of  a  hard-driven,  desperate  antagonist. 
The  road  to  democracy  is  scarred  with  "last  ditches."  As 
the  people  advance,  the  receding  plutocracy  cries  fran- 
tically, "Thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther,"  and  occa- 
sionally when  a  particularly  inexcusable  attempt  is  made 
to  subordinate  the  national  business  to  the  nation,  the 
plutocracy,  in  the  outraged  dignity  of  a  tragedy  queen, 
cries  out  aloud,  "Another  step  forward,  and  I  die."  In 
reality,  the  plutocracy  never  dies.  The  railroads  do  not 
cease  running;  the  refineries  do  not  cease  refining;  the 
public  service  corporation,  "swearing  she  will  ne'er  con- 
sent," consents.  If  the  railroads  were  to  close  up  shop, 
they  would  take  the  bread  and  butter  from  the  mouths  of 
millions  of  American  citizens.  It  would  be  a  terrible 
example.     But  to  whom  ? 

The  democracy  in  the  course  of  its  instructive  victories 
and  its  equally  instructive  defeats  learns   that  the  surest 

1  The  metempsychosis  of  kings  from  arrogant  tyrants  to  domesticated 
national  pets  and,  incidentally,  democratic  advisers,  illustrates  how  skill- 
fully a  democracy  can  adapt  an  old  form  to  a  new  end.  A  Henry  the 
Seventh,  a  James  the  Second,  even  a  George  the  Third,  would  be  an  un- 
thinkable anachronism  in  the  England  of  to-day,  but  a  George  the  Fifth  is 
a  national  asset,  as  the  Lord  Mayor  or  the  Tower  of  London  is  an  asset. 


266  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

method  of  progress  is  to  take  one  step  after  another.    The 
first  step,  often  uncontested  (because  it  is  only  one  step), 
/leads  inevitably  to  others.     Democratic  progress  is  succes- 
'  '*  sive,  not  simultaneous. 

The  steps  once  taken  are  progressively  easy.  For  ex- 
ample, the  retention  and  exploitation  by  the  federal  gov- 
ernment of  the  resources  of  Alaska  would  disappoint  only  a 
small  number  of  prospective  millionaires,  while  it  would  not 
only  give  the  government  an  immensely  increased  wealth, 
but  might  serve  as  an  opening  wedge  for  other  wide-branch- 
ing programs  of  reform.  If  the  billions  of  potential  wealth 
in  Alaska  were  to  be  devoted  —  let  us  say  —  to  the  subsidy 
of  our  national  education,  we  should  be  a  wiser  nation  thirty 
years  hence.  So,  a  purely  "voluntary"  federal  incorpora- 
tion law  would  doubtless  lead  to  an  efficient  compulsory 
incorporation  law  which  would  eventually  insure  a  control 
over  the  most  recondite  operations  of  all  great  corporations. 
A  minimum  tax  on  inheritances  contains  the  germ  of  a 
definite  prohibition  of  insanely  large  accumulations.  A 
merely  nominal  tax  upon  our  coal  reserves  involves  eventu- 
ally the  end  of  the  forestalling  of  our  natural  resources. 
There  are  mineral  lands  worth,  to-day,  a  few  hundreds  of 
millions,  which  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  hence  will  be  worth 
billions  of  dollars.  If  the  nation  could  approach  the 
owners  of  these  lands  with  the  sword  of  a  gentle  tax  in  the 
one  hand  and  the  olive  branch  of  a  fair  purchase  price  in 
the  other,  there  would  soon  be  no  fear  of  any  monopoly  of 
our  mineral  resources. 

As  the  government  can  unobtrusively  enter  the  tent  of 
business,  so  the  people  without  proclamations  or  fireworks 
can  enter  into  control  of  the  state.  The  time  will  come 
when  the  Constitution  will  be  made  easily  amendable  by 
the  people.  Until  this  is  accomplished,  however,  the 
simplest  way,  whenever  an  alteration  of  the  Constitution  is 
essential  to  progress,  is  to  persuade  the  people,  who  elect 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  267 

the  President  and  the  Senators,  who  choose  the  Supreme 
Court  judges,  that  the  proposed  change  is  in  the  public 
interest,  and  therefore  is  in  harmony  with  the  putative 
intent  of  the  framers  of  the  document.  If  in  the  full  swing 
and  current  of  a  victorious  democratic  movement  a  ma- 
jority of  judges,  imbued  with  popular  ideas,  would  interpret 
a  single  clause  of  the  Constitution  in  a  sense  often  con- 
tended for,  but  never  as  yet  accepted  by  the  courts,  the 
door  would  be  opened  to  a  complete  democratization  of  our 
whole  political  and  economic  system.1  Political,  like  eco- 
nomic, reforms  lead  the  way  to  others  of  the  same  kind. 
A  voluntary  and  partial  regulation  of  party  primaries  leads 
within  a  few  years  to  a  compulsory  and  state-wide  direct 
primary.  A  restricted  application  of  the  principle  of  refer- 
endum and  initiative  leads  to  its  universal  and  unrestricted 
adoption.  Extra-legal  arrangements,  such  as  the  direct 
election  of  United  States  Senators,  completely  alter  our 
fundamental  constitutional  system,  without  touching  the 
Constitution.  It  is  progress  step  by  step.  It  is  progress 
by  indirection.  It  is  a  successful  flank  movement,  instead 
of  a  brave,  but  suicidal,  frontal  attack. 

1  The  clause  consists  of  the  italicized  words  in  the  following  sentence 
from  the  eighth  section  of  the  first  article.  "Congress  shall  have  power : 
To  lay  and  collect  taxes,  duties,  imposts,  and  excises,  to  pay  the  debts  and 
provide  for  the  common  defense  and  general  welfare  of  the  United  States.'7 
The  courts  have  always  interpreted  these  final  words,  not  as  an  independ- 
ent grant  of  power,  but  as  a  statement  of  purposes  for  the  levying  of  taxes, 
and,  as  such,  a  condition  or  limitation  of  the  grant,  "to  lay  and  collect 
taxes,"  etc.  But  the  courts  have,  before  this,  changed  their  interpretations 
and  forced  new  meanings  upon  old  words.  The  grant  to  Congress  of  the 
right  to  "provide  for  the  common  defense  and  general  welfare  of  the  United 
States,"  coupled  with  the  right  "to  make  all  laws  which  shall  be  necessary 
and  proper  for  carrying  into  execution  the  foregoing  powers,"  would  wipe 
away  practically  all  restrictions  upon  our  federal  legislative  bodies.  It  is 
not  here  contended  that  such  a  judicial  decision  would  be  entirely  desirable 
in  the  present  state  of  public  opinion  and  political  capacity,  but  in  the  years 
to  come,  either  this  or  some  other  interpretation  having  a  similar  broadening 
effect  is  more  probable  than  is  the  attainment  of  the  same  end  by  direct 
amendments  to  the  Constitution  under  our  present  system  of  amending. 


268  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

By  such  indirect  means,  which,  after  all,  are  the  means 
naturally  adopted  by  the  people,  even  a  revolution  may  be 
"safe,  sane,  and  conservative.' '  We  may  change  the  very 
bases  of  our  government,  law,  and  business ;  we  may  jump 
the  hurdles  of  the  Constitution,  and  may  circumvent  the 
obstacles  of  a  mass  of  antiquated  judicial  decisions,  while 
walking  along  the  paths  of  legality  and  constitutionalism, 
and  abjuring  all  get-there-quick  methods  and  all  violent 
conflicts  with  our  historic  past.  A  wound,  to  kill  a  man, 
need  not  be  "so  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church 
door"  ;  a  pin  thrust  at  the  right  spot  will  serve.  So,  if  we 
are  to  end  a  long  list  of  industrial  and  political  evils,  we 
need  not  attack  property,  which  is  to  attack  the  majority. 
We  need  not  evoke  a  class  war,  which  is  a  war  of  the  weak 
against  the  strong.  We  need  not  take  all  the  unearned  in- 
crement, which  we  may  find  in  our  own  farms  and  in  our 
own  single  shares  of  stock.  We  need  not  cure  everything 
at  once.  We  may  take  step  by  step,  as  the  chance  pre- 
sents itself. 

In  the  working  out  of  such  a  policy  of  successive  actions 
and  of  well-considered  delays,  time  and  technical  progress 
often  work  on  the  side  of  the  democracy.  When  electricity 
supplanted  horses  on  the  street  cars,  the  cities,  aided  by 
the  States,  had  an  opportunity  of  practically  retaking  their 
old  franchises  by  refusing  to  permit  to  the  old  lines  the 
use  of  the  new  traction,  while  at  the  same  time  offering  the 
companies  a  fair  price  for  their  rusty  rails.  So,  to-day, 
when  the  rights  of  way  into  the  center  of  cities  have  given 
certain  railroads  an  enormous  monopoly  value,1  a  new 
opportunity  is  afforded  to  the  city,  State,  or  nation  to 
secure  an  underground  entrance  for  new  railroads  run 
under  the  city  streets.  In  every  generation  our  inventors 
discover  a  virgin  continent,  and  the  new  vast  resources, 

1  For  example,  the  New  York  Central's  route  into  New  York,  the 
Pennsylvania's  into  Philadelphia,  and  the  Illinois  Central's  into  Chicago. 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  269 

thus  thrown  into  the  public's  lap,  may  be  utilized,  wasted, 
or  monopolized.  Usually  they  are  wasted  or  given  to 
favorites.  The  occasional  sparks  of  social  prevision  shine 
out  in  a  black  infinity  of  utter  governmental  thriftlessness 
"like  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world."  But  we  are  slowly 
learning.  In  the  future  we  shall  better  know  how  to  lay 
our  corporate  hands  upon  the  things  which  science  and 
invention  throw  our  way. 

Our  progress,  though  gradual,  must  be  rapid.  We  dare 
not  make  a  virtue  of  slowness,  nor  exalt  the  snail  as  the 
only  true  reformer.  Just  as  they  who  surrender  themselves 
to  celestial  Utopias  cease  to  care  for  progress  upon  a  too, 
too  solid  earth,  so  they  who  content  themselves  with 
walking,  when  they  might  run  or  fly,  see  the  long  years 
pass  without  worthy  progress.  In  our  political  and  indus- 
trial world,  as  in  Looking  Glass  Land,  you  must  run  very 
fast  indeed  merely  to  remain  where  you  are. 

Democratic  progress,  moreover,  must  be  coordinated,  pre- 
._/  pared,  tested.  It  must  consist  of  necessary  links  in  an 
increasingly  visible  chain.  The  advantage  of  gradual  reform 
is  that  it  permits  a  sort  of  psychological  acclimatization  on 
the  part  of  the  reformed.  But  for  a  policy  to  be  truly 
graduated,  it  must  possess  an  inherent  unity.  It  must  not 
be  a  choppy,  disjointed,  and  spasmodic  succession  of  un- 
corrected social  efforts.  It  does  not  hurt  a  dog  less  to  cut 
its  tail  off  by  inches,  nor  a  corporation  less  to  subject  it 
gradually  to  a  dozen  successive  criminal  prosecutions.  No 
merely  sporadic  action,  whether  it  be  an  "exposure/'  a 
tirade,  a  punitive  fine,  or  an  exemplary  jail  sentence,  can 
effect  much  permanent  good,  and  a  series  of  sporadic  actions 
does  not  constitute  a  graduated  reform.  The  democracy, 
though  compromising  in  action,  must  be  uncompromising  in 
principle.  Though  conciliatory  towards  opponents,  it  must 
be  constant  to  its  fixed  ideals.  Though  it  tack  with  the 
wind,  it  must  keep  always  in  sight  its  general  destination. 


( 


270  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

What  the  democracy  needs  is  a  consistent  and  constructive 
policy,  changed  from  time  to  time  as  new  exigencies  or  new 
interpretations  of  social  facts  require,  but  carried  out  un- 
flinchingly, and  realized  as  opportunities  permit.  A  policy 
of  single  steps  is  desirable  only  when  each  step  leads  to 
other  steps,  not  yet  practicable,  but  at  least  dimly  fore- 
seeable. 

Finally,  the  democracy,  in  its  forward  march,  must  keep 

(  a  watchful  eye  to  the  rear.     It  must  promote  a  constant 

Vcohesion  within  its  ranks.     It  must  abate  internal  strife. 

It  must  gather  an  ever  increasing  number  of  recruits  from 

the  still  unawakened  but  potentially  democratic  masses. 

Whatever  else  its  tactics  be,  the  democratic  movement 
must  keep  pace  with  the  masses  of  its  probable  supporters, 
marching  just  far  enough  ahead  to  be  able  to  lead.  To 
proceed  at  a  much  faster  rate  than  the  psychological  develop- 
ment of  the  mass  is  to  court  a  swift  and  powerful  reaction. 
More  than  anything  else  the  democratic  movement  must 
maintain  harmony  among  its  groups.  Social  cooperation, 
which  is  the  goal  of  democracy,  is  also  its  weapon. 
J  The  goal  of  internal  harmony  is  more  easily  recognized 
than  attained,  and  it  is  often  more  difficult  to  conciliate 
an  ally  than  to  defeat  an  enemy.  The  various  subgroups 
of  democrats  and  semidemocrats  have  divergent,  and  even 
antagonistic,  interests.  The  workman  has  his  sharp  con- 
flict with  his  employer,  and  he  cannot  afford,  in  furthering 
his  general  interests  (those  which  he  has  in  common  with 
the  business  man),  to  surrender  his  special  claims.  The 
social  surplus,  so  largely  monopolized  by  the  plutocracy, 
is  a  splendid  prize  in  itself,  and  herein  the  proletariat,  like 
other  groups,  has  "a  world  to  gain.,,  But  in  giving  their 
adherence  to  the  democratic  alliance,  the  workingmen, 
like  other  social  groups,  are  entitled  to  a  quid  pro  quo. 

Even  more  divisive  than  these  divergent  interests  of  sub- 
groups are  the  varying  philosophies  and  the  often  startling 


* 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  271 

idiosyncrasies  of  rival  democratic  leaders.  A  witty  abo- 
litionist once  declared  that  to  free  the  slaves,  an  all-wise 
Providence  had  chosen  as  His  instruments  people  whom  she 
would  not  touch  with  a  ten-foot  pole.  Among  democrats 
—  as  also  among  Methodists,  single-taxers,  stammerers, 
and  longshoremen  —  there  are  wise  and  foolish,  temperate  » 
and  fanatic.  There  is  the  Quixotic  genius,  who  eats  up  his 
energy  in  friction,  and  through  very  excess  of  zeal  is  thrown 
off  tangentially  into  the  frigid  void  of  indifference.  There 
are  others  of  a  more  lethargic  temperament,  who  live  in  a 
quiet  connubial  commerce  with  their  ideals,  neither  demand- 
ing much  nor  failing  often.  There  are  people  immersed  in 
the  pettiest  of  preoccupations,  who  nevertheless  " catch" 
democracy  as  they  catch  influenza,  and  who  rise  to  the 
surface  because  o?  their  low  specific  gravity.  These  con- 
stitutionally hostile  people,  though  hating  the  same  thing, 
do  not  always  love  each  other,  and  many  serious  difficul- 
ties arise  from  temperamental  misconceptions  and  from 
the  lack  of  an  emotional  appeal  or  of  an  intellectual 
insight  powerful  enough  to  overturn  these  psychological 
barriers. 

A  still  heavier  burden  upon  the  democratic  movement  is 
the  residual  inertness  of  the  mass.  In  part  this  is  a  defect 
of  education,  for  knowledge  is  desire,  and  men  want  when 
they  see.  Outside  the  groups  of  men  who  are  always  or 
generally  on  the  side  of  democracy,  however,  there  is  that 
wide  fringe  of  indifferent  men  and  women,  who  lack  the 
leisure,  the  education,  or  the  social  conscience  to  see  public 
problems  other  than  vaguely  and  intermittently,  and  who 
oppose  a  sluggish  resistance  to  the  realization  even  of  their 
own  perceived  advantages.  The  men  who  are  harried  by 
the  quest  of  bread  and  butter  and  automobiles;  who  are 
intellectually  withered  through  brainless  overwork;  who  are 
ground  up  between  the  millstones  of  a  feverish  money- 
getting  and  a  feverish  money-spending ;    the  men  who  are 


272  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

immersed  in  the  most  transient  and  insignificant  of  events, 
tend  to  lose  sight  entirely  of  their  share  in  large  public 
matters. 

In  this  respect,  in  its  being  compelled  to  carry  the  im- 
pedimenta of  a  long  accumulated  indifference,  the  wide 
democratic  movement  of  to-day  may  be  compared  with  the 
woman's  suffrage  movement,  which  is  one  of  its  symptoms. 
The  movement  for  the  political  emancipation  of  women 
suffers  less  from  active  antagonism  than  from  the  inertness 
of  many  women  to  whom  it  should  appeal.  The  move- 
ment, when  successful,  will  but  slightly  affect  the  distribu- 
tion of  political  and  economic  power,  because  the  lines  of 
\social  cleavage  do  not  largely  parallel  sex  lines,  and  men 
will  gain  much  more  than  they  will  lose  from  this  extension 
of  the  suffrage.  In  the  same  way,  the  antisuflfragists,  far 
from  being  the  opponents,  are  the  real,  though  innocent, 
coadjutors  of  the  suffragists.  The  antisuffrage  movement, 
though  it  wanders  rather  forlornly  in  alien  thoroughfares, 
is,  after  all,  like  the  suffrage  movement,  an  unmistakable 
sign  of  an  awakened  social  consciousness  among  women. 
The  antisufifragists  —  those  strident  declaimers  for  quietude, 
those  able  defenders  of  women's  most  cherished  disabilities 
—  are  sprung,  after  all,  from  the  identical  soil  as  their  pro- 
gressive sisters.  The  "anti's"  will  convince  all  that  some 
women  are  politically  capable,  and  that  some  are  politically 
ambitious,  and,  even  more  effectively  than  the  suffragists, 
they  will  prove  that  the  bonds  which  have  so  long  gagged 
and  blinded  and  hobbled  the  half  of  humanity  are  being 
one  by  one  and  forever  broken.  The  real  opponents  of 
woman's  right  to  vote  are  not  our  energetic  though  somnam- 

\bulistic  "anti's,"  but  the  great  sluggish  mass  of  pleasant, 
politically  unawakened  women,  the  psychologically  sub- 
merged.1 

1  Antagonism  is  often  a  more  fertile  field  for  propaganda  than  indiffer- 
ence, for  the  will  to  combat  is  not  always  so  different  from  the  will  to  be- 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  273 

To  unite  those  who  are  already  acknowledged  demo- 
crats, and  to  enlist  those  who  do  not  yet  know  or  care 
what  they  are,  a  long  continued  campaign  of  education  is 
necessary.  This  education  includes  the  learning  of  the 
schools  and  colleges  and  that  also  of  the  newspaper,  maga- 
zine, book,  play,  sermon,  factory,  street,  railroad,  market, 
and  city.  It  involves  a  breaking  of  the  tablets  of  conserv- 
atism ;  a  freeing  of  the  mind  from  political  and  economic 
fetish  worship,  and  the  cultivation  of  a  popular  receptivity 
for  new  ideas. 

Our  old  notions,  not  our  corporeal  enemies,  enslave  us. 
We  must  throw  over  the  old  cramping  maxims  of  days  of 
poverty.  We  must  throw  over  our  conceptions  of  cost 
and  value  (which  measure  wealth  by  effort)  and  must  accept 
new  ideas  of  utility  (which  measure  wealth  by  pleasure  and 
satisfaction).  We  must  recognize  that  we  have  the  social 
wealth  to  cure  our  social  evils  —  and  that  until  we  have 
turned  that  social  wealth  against  poverty,  crime,  vice, 
disease,  incapacity,  and  ignorance,  we  have  not  begun  to 
attain  democracy.  We  must  change  our  attitude  towards 
government,  towards  business,  towards  reform,  towards 
philanthropy,  towards  all  the  facts  immediately  or  remotely 
affecting  our  industrial  and  political  life.  Such  an  educa- 
tion of  its  own  members,  present  and  prospective,  must  be 
a  necessary  part  of  a  democratic  campaign. 

One  might  well  fear  for  a  democratic  organization  which 
contained  so  many  diverse  and  conflicting  elements ;  which 
comprised  such  irreconcilable  personalities ;  which  depended 
upon  so  inert  an  outside  mass;  and  which  was  forced 
to  educate  to  new  and  revolutionary  concepts  so  many 
listless  millions  of  traditionally-minded  people.  Without 
undue  skepticism,  one  might  fear  that  a  movement  which 

lieve.  There  often  seems  more  hope  of  radical  action  from  a  rabid  reac- 
tionary than  from  a  contented  conservative,  because  the  reactionary, 
though  he  moves  backwards,  at  least  moves. 

T 


274  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

is  merely  the  resultant  of  constantly  changing  social 
forces  might  fail  to  eventuate,  or  might  succumb  to  its 
obstacles. 

Nevertheless,  while  people  are  proclaiming  that  demo- 
cratic progress  is  impossible,  it  is  already  upon  us.  While 
we  are  being  shown  by  diagram  that  the  people  cannot 
even  tell  what  democracy  is,  we  need  only  look  out  of  our 
window  to  see  them  actually  achieving  democracy.  Babies 
learn  to  eat  before  they  know  the  muscles  of  the  alimentary 
canal  or  the  chemistry  of  the  digestive  juices,  and  men 
learn  to  unite  without  seeing  or  knowing  their  allies,  and  to 
march  stolidly  without  clearly  seeing  their  goal. 

To-day  the  democratic  army,  united  by  the  loosest 
>onds,  and  subjected  to  the  most  attenuated  discipline,  is 
moving  along  three  wide  roads  to  a  common  but  not  clearly 
perceived  goal.  These  three  roads  are  the  democratization 
of  government,  the  socialization  of  industry,  and  the  civili- 
zation of  the  citizen.  These  roads  meet  and  cross  and 
iterwine,  and  the  various  contingents  join  and  separate, 
and  again  join  and  again  separate,  while,  all  the  time,  the 
army,  stretching  out  far  into  the  distance,  approaches  nearer 
to  its  goal.  The  men  in  the  rear,  marching  partly  through 
an  inertia  x)f  motion,  partly  through  imitation  of  the  men 
ahead,  occasionally  desert  and  again  reenlist.  They  see 
only  vaguely  the  outlines  of  the  country  to  which  they  are 
marching.  But  with  each  advance  their  view  becomes 
clearer  and  with  each  new  day  the  habit  of  marching  and 
the  instinct  of  fellowship  with  the  men  ahead  increase. 
Occasionally  great  bodies,  attracted  by  new  leaders,  branch 
off  into  side  paths,  which  seem  shorter  and  straighter,  and 
some  of  these  detachments  are  lost,  and  some,  by  occupy- 
ing cross  paths,  obstruct  the  passage  of  the  main  army; 
while  others,  by  still  marching,  once  more  strike  the  com- 
mon road  and  thus  rejoin  their  comrades.  Gradually  the 
army,  though  composed  of  many  detachments  led  by  many 


THE  TACTICS  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY  275 

generals,  becomes  somewhat  more  unified.  Gradually,  as 
many  men  coming  from  many  places  converge  on  common 
points,  the  three  broad  roads  of  the  march,  the  roads  of 
democratic  government,  of  socialized  industry,  and  of  a 
civilized  people,  become  clearly  marked  highways. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   INDUSTRIAL   PROGRAM   OF   THE   DEMOCRACY 

THE  industrial  goal  of  the  democracy  is  the  socializa- 
tion of  industry.  It  is  the  attainment  by  the  people 
of  the  largest  possible  industrial  control  and  of  the  largest 
possible  industrial  dividend.  The  democracy  seeks  to 
attain  these  ends  through  government  ownership  of  indus- 
try ;  through  government  regulation ;  through  tax  reform  ; 
through  a  moralization  and  reorganization  of  business  in  the 
interest  of  the  industrially  weak. 

Everywhere  we  find  evidences  of  industrial  developments 
in  the  general  direction  of  this  goal.  Government  goes  into 
business.  The  Post  Office  embarks  upon  the  banking  busi- 
ness and  threatens  to  engage  in  the  express  business.  The 
Forestry  Bureau  raises  and  sells  timber.  The  Reclamation 
Service  goes  into  many  separate  businesses  in  connection 
with  the  building  of  dams  and  the  selling  of  water.  In  the 
construction  of  the  Panama  Canal,  the  government  builds 
roads  and  railroads  and  conducts  dozens  of  separate  enter- 
prises. At  the  same  time,  the  States  and  cities  greatly 
extend  the  sphere  of  their  direct  participation  in  business, 
and  buy  and  manufacture  and  sell  on  an  enlarging  scale. 

Government  regulation  grows  simultaneously.  It  extends 
over  more  industries,  and  over  more  operations  of  industries. 
Railroad  regulation,  both  by  the  nation  and  by  some  thirty 
States,  becomes  wider.  Railroad  rates,  services,  account- 
ing come  within  the  purview  of  State  and  national  regula- 
tion. A  corporation  tax  law  marks  the  beginning  of  a 
wider  investigation  of  all  corporation  actions.  A  Bureau 
of  Corporations  and  a  Tariff  Board  demand  explicit  infor- 

276 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      277 

mation  concerning  manufacturing  and  selling  concerns. 
Factory  and  labor  laws  regulate  the  internal  economy  of 
businesses.  Pure  food  laws,  postal  laws,  corporation  laws, 
etc.,  regulate  business  from  the  points  of  view  of  consumer 
and  investor.  A  federal  incorporation  law  is  proposed  with 
the  idea  of  subjecting  all  corporations  doing  an  interstate 
business  to  the  control  of  the  federal  government. 

Still  other  developments  reveal  this  democratic  goal. 
Our  public  lands,  mines,  and  water  powers  are  reserved  for 
the  people  instead  of  being  indiscriminately  given  away, 
as  formerly.  A  strongly  antagonistic  attitude  towards 
" swollen  fortunes"  is  revealed,  and  proposals  are  made  to 
reduce  these  swellings  by  heavy  taxes,  and  to  use  the  powers 
of  taxation  generally  to  lessen  economic  inequalities.  Trade- 
unions  with  tens  of  thousands  of  members  claim  a  partial 
control  of  industry,  and  the  general  community  asserts  its 
right  to  participate  in  the  settlement  of  industrial  disputes. 
A  new  insistence  is  laid  upon  the  social  interest  in  all  mani- 
festations of  our  industrial  life. 

The  broad  outlines  of  the  democracy's  industrial  pro- 
gram, so  far  as  they  have  reached  the  general  conscious- 
ness, are  to  be  found  in  the  promises  and  declamations  of 
the  platforms  of  our  political  parties.  These  platforms  are 
for  the  most  part  insincere,  but  it  is  exactly  their  insincerity 
which  gives  them  their  evidential  value.  A  platform  does 
not  show  what  the  politician  wants,  but  does  show  what 
that  astute  person  believes  that  the  people  want.  It  is  the 
tribute,  often  the  sole  tribute,  which  the  candidate  pays  to 
the  popular  wish.  The  platform's  ambiguities  are  equally 
enlightening.  Nothing  reveals  more  clearly  the  presence, 
and  even  the  relative  strength,  of  two  opposed  forces  in 
society  than  do  the  platform's  nicely  balanced  sentences, 
in  which  two  warring  clauses  reduce  each  other  to  an  in- 
nocuous meaninglessness. 

The  superlative  value  of  the  platform  as  evidence  is  due 


278  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

to  the  fact  that  it  is  always  addressed  to  a  potential  ma- 
jority. All  platforms  (Republican,  Democratic,  Socialist, 
Prohibition)  appeal  to  "the  masses,"  to  "the  many,"  to 
"the  people."  Thus  the  1909  tariff  is  denounced  by  the 
Democratic  State  (1910)  platforms  because  it  oppresses 
"the  many  for  the  benefit  of  the  few"  (Alabama) ;  because 
"it  plunders  the  many  to  enrich  the  few"  (Michigan) ; 
because  it  imposes  "added  burdens  upon  the  toiling  and 
consuming  masses"  (Colorado),  while  building  "up  great 
fortunes  for  a  favored  few"  (Connecticut) ;  because  it  has 
made  heavier  "the  burdens  of  the  consuming  masses" 
(Georgia) ;  thus  "involving  remorseless  exactions  from  the 
many  to  enrich  the  few"  (Indiana),  and  so  on  through  all 
the  States.  For  the  protection  of  the  many  against  the  few, 
the  trusts  are  assailed,  the  conservation  of  natural  re- 
sources is  approved,  and  the  adoption  of  the  income  tax 
amendment  is  urged.  All  of  which  solicitude  for  "the 
many"  is  explicable,  since  while  "the  favored  few"  often 
rule  the  party,  it  is  "the  many"  who  furnish  the  votes.1 

The  most  characteristic  feature  of  the  industrial  pro- 
gram of  the  democracy,  as  revealed  in  party  platforms  and 
in  books,  newspapers,  and  speeches,  as  well  as  in  actual 
legislation,  is  the  emphasis  which  is  laid  upon  the  state  in 
industry.  Government  ownership  and  regulation — national, 
State,  and  local  —  are  urged  for  more  and  more  industries. 
The  dividend  from  industry,  which  people  are  demanding,  is 
more  largely  a  joint  than  an  individual  dividend.  It  is  a 
dividend  which   the   individual    citizen    can    obtain  only 

1  "The  two  dominant  political  parties,"  says  the  New  York  State 
Socialist  Platform  of  1910,  "pretend  to  stand  for  all  the  people;  the  so- 
called  reform  parties  claim  to  speak  for  the  good  people ;  the  Socialist  party 
frankly  acknowledges  that  it  is  concerned  chiefly  with  the  working  people." 
Since,  however,  all  the  working  people  of  the  State  are  the  chief  concern 
of  the  party,  and  since  it  aligns  "those  who  toil"  against  "those  who 
prey,"  and  "those  who  are  robbed"  against  "those  who  rob,"  it  may  also 
be  considered  to  be  broad  in  its  platform  appeal. 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      279 

through  the  intermediation  of  the  State  or  nation ;  in 
other  words,  through  an  extension  of  State  control  over 
industry.1 

What  the  democracy  desires,  however,  is  not  government 
ownership  for  itself,  but  merely  enough  government  owner- 
ship, regulation,  or  control  as  may  be  necessary  to  a  true 
socialization  of  industry.  The  democracy's  goal  —  the  so- 
cialization of  industry  —  is  a  viewing  of  our  manifold  busi- 
ness life  from  the  standpoint  of  society  and  not  solely  from  \r 
that  of  the  present  beneficiaries  or  directors  of  industry.  It 
is  such  a  coordination  of  business  as  will  permanently  give  the 
greatest  happiness  and  the  highest  development  to  the  larg- 
est number  of  individuals,  and  to  society  as  a  whole. 

Socialization  is  thus  a  point  of  view.  It  is  less  a  definite 
industrial  program  than  the  animating  ideal  of  a  whole 
industrial  policy.  It  is  a  standard  by  which  industrial 
conditions  and  industrial  developments  must  be  adjudged. 

Jn  certain  industries  socialization  may  involve  a  govern- 
ment monopoly.  In  others,  it  may  mean  government  opera- 
tion in  competition  with  private  businesses,;  or  a  govern- 
ment ownership  with  private  management ;  or  a  division  of 
the  profits  of  private  industries.  Or  it  may  involve  a 
thoroughgoing  regulation  of  an  industry,  prescribing  rates, 
prices,  services,  wages,  hours,  labor  conditions,  dividends, 
and  the  internal  economy  in  general.  Or,  socialization  may 
mean  a  lesser  regulation ;  or  mere  publicity ;  or  encourage- 
ment; or  subsidies;  or  legal  recognition;  or  simply  the 
prescribing  of  a  minimum  capital  or  of  a  preliminary  train- 
ing. Again,  socialization  may  mean  a  deflection  of  the 
stream  of  wealth  which  flows  from  an  industry,  a  deflection 
accomplished  by  tax  laws,  or  by  laws  altering  the  conditions 

1  The  old  cry,  "Vote  yourself  a  farm,"  represented  an  individualistic 
point  of  view.  It  was  the  man's  share  of  a  divisible  and  alienable  public 
domain  that  was  wanted  ;  not  his  joint  share  in  an  indivisible  thing,  such 
as  a  public  library,  a  public  park,  improved  educational  facilities,  etc. 


280  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

of  conveying  property.  Finally,  socialization  may  be 
accomplished  without  direct  governmental  regulation.  How 
far  the  government  shall  interfere  depends  on  the  business. 
An  insurance  company,  to  which  people  who  are  not  actuaries 
give  money  now  that  their  widows  may  receive  money  fifty 
years  hence,  requires  a  different  regulation  from  the  business 
of  the  corner  tailor,  who  presses  your  coat  while  you  wait. 

Because  it  is  not  restricted  as  to  means,  socialization  may 
effect  itself  without  a  million  minute  rules.  To-day  each  of 
our  ninety-two  million  citizens  is  enjoined  against  thousands 
of  crimes  and  misdemeanors  and  against  thousands  of  pos- 
sible violations  of  the  property  rights  of  each  of  his  ninety- 
two  million  neighbors.  And  yet,  most  of  us  obey  the  law 
without  thinking.  In  many  industries  profit  seeking  (with 
certain  broad  restrictions  and  encouragements)  will  result 
in  a  substantial  socialization.  A  few  hundreds  of  millions 
a  year  intelligently  spent  on  agricultural  and  general  edu- 
cation, on  experiment  stations,  on  public  roads,  etc.,  would 
do  more  to  effect  a  better  socialization  of  agriculture  than 
a  fifty- volume  code  of  agricultural  law. 

Nor  does  socialization  involve  the  negation  of  profits. 
The  love  of  gain  is  a  tough  and  wholesome  human  fiber. 
It  is  the  crude  motive  power  of  industry.  Socialization 
considers  profit  seeking  neither  as  a  universally  beneficent 
regulative  impulse  nor  as  the  stubborn  root  of  all  industrial 
1  evils.  It  regards  profits  and  wages  as  contributions  to  a 
larger  end,  to  be  balanced  as  such  against  other  results  of 
the  industry.  If  a  given  industry  creates  on  the  whole  an 
excess  of  costs  over  utilities,  or  if  it  affords  a  smaller  surplus 
of  utilities  than  would  the  same  amount  of  capital  and  labor 
invested  otherwise,  then  it  is  within  the  province  of  society 
to  reform,  or  even  to  abolish  the  industry.1 

1  If  society,  without  warning,  prohibits  actions  and  business  methods 
which  it  formerly  encouraged  or  tolerated,  there  may  be  a  fair  question  as 
to  whether  employers  and  workmen,  suffering  losses  from  such  unantici- 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      281 

Socialization  considers  industry  as  a  whole.     The  national  \ 
business  is  "one  and  indivisible" ;   an  indissoluble  union  of 
autonomous,  but  linked,  industries.1 

In  emphasizing  this  oneness  of  business,  socialization  is 
doing  on  a  large  scale  and  from  the  point  of  view  of  society 
what  the  trust  did  on  a  smaller  scale  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  profit-taker.  Like  the  trust,  socialization  subjects 
rival  or  dissimilar  businesses  to  the  sway  of  a  single  aim. 
Like  the  trust,  socialization  attains  unity  without  sacrificing 
variety.  The  trust  does  not  always  end  the  separate  ex- 
istence of  constituent  companies.  So,  under  a  complete  ^ 
socialization  of  our  national  industry,  we  would  have  thou- 
sands of  separate  kinds  of  business  under  different  forms  of 
ownership,  management,  and  control,  but  each  continuing  its 
existence  and  mode  of  life  because  adapted,  in  the  opinion 
of  society,  to  contribute  its  share  to  the  best  progress  of 
industry  as  a  whole.  — -"^ 

Like  the  trust,  also,  socialization  does  not  end  competition. 
The  trust  encourages  internal  competition.  The  right  hand 
is  stimulated  to  do  better  than  the  left,  and  the  left  to  excel 
the  right.  The  factory  manager  who  attains  a  greater  output 
or  a  lest  cost  per  unit  of  product  than  rival  managers  is 
appropriately  recompensed.  It  is  a  "personally  conducted'' 
competition,  which  differs  from  the  competition  outside  the 
trust  (the  industrial  helium  omnium  contra  omnes)  as  the 
Prince  Charles  spaniel  differs  from  his  savage  cousin,  the 
gray  wolf.     Similarly,  socialization  relies  upon  competition, 

pated  prohibition,  may  not  justly  claim  compensation.  The  essential  point 
of  socialization,  however,  is  not  this  eventual  compensation,  but  the  right, 
reserved  and  exercised  by  society,  of  determining,  in  last  resort,  what 
things  may  be  produced  and  how. 

1  There  is  a  theory  of  business  which  is  diametrically  opposed  to  indus- 
trial socialization.  This  theory,  which  we  may  call  industrial  autonomy, 
considers  the  national  economy  as  a  series  of  largely  unconnected  industrial 
parts,  each  the  province  of  the  people  actually  engaged  in  it.  It  regards 
industrial  enterprises  as  international  law  regards  the  nations,  —  as  sov- 
ereign bodies,  with  the  internal  affairs  of  which  no  one  may  meddle. 


282  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

which  educates  and  steels  competitors,  though  it  opposes 
competition  which  injures  the  contestants  or  others.1 

In  actual  fact  socialization,  in  so  far  as  it  involves  the 
actual  intervention  of  the  state,  is  used  largely  to  supple- 
ment or  correct  competition.  It  is  where  competition  is 
atrophied,  as  in  the  case  of  monopolies,  or  where  it  appears 
in  a  pathological  form,  as  in  child  labor,  industrial  parasitism, 
etc.,  that  the  intervention  of  the  state  is  most  needed. 

Especially  is  this  true  of  monopolies.  "Where  monopoly 
is  inevitable,' '  says  the  Wisconsin  Republican  Platform  of 
1910,  "we  favor  complete  government  regulation."  The 
Illinois  Democrats  are  in  favor  of  an  extension  of  the  govern- 
mental policy  of  conservation,  because  they  "are  opposed  to 
the  gobbling  up  of  the  mines,  the  forests,  the  oil  fields,  and 
the  water-power  sites  of  the  country  by  the  greedy  repre- 
sentatives of  Big  Business."  All  through  our  political 
literature  runs  the  attack  upon  "monopolies,"  "the  trusts 
and  monopolies,"  "the  corporate  trusts,"  "certain  corpora- 
tions and  combinations  of  capital."  2 

One  reason  for  the  government  ownership  or  regulation 

1  This  distinction  between  social  and  antisocial  competition  is  empha- 
sized by  trade-union  leaders  in  their  defense  of  minimum  conditions.  They 
argue  that  the  competitive  battle  should  be  fought  out  along  the  socially 
advantageous  lines  of  directive  genius,  improved  factory  organization,  the 
installation  of  better  machinery,  and  not  along  the  socially  disadvantageous 
lines  of  a  lowering  of  wages,  a  lengthening  of  hours,  a  worsening  of  condi- 
tions, or  an  exploitation  of  the  labor  of  little  children.     The  end  of  the  lower 

competition  is  the  sweatshop ;  that  of  the  higher  is  that  wonderful  series 
of  inventions  which  cannot  be  utilized  except  when  labor  is  sufficiently 
intelligent  and  sufficiently  rewarded. 

2  While  it  is  impossible  to  draw  an  absolute  distinction  between  com- 
petitive industries  and  monopolies  (since  there  is  an  appreciable  monopoly 
element  in  businesses  usually  called  competitive,  and  an  appreciable  com- 
petitive element  in  most  of  our  so-called  monopolies),  still,  in  the  majority 
of  cases,  we  can  tell  roughly  whether  the  industry  is  preponderatingly  com- 
petitive or  monopolistic.  On  the  whole,  a  competitive  industry  is  one  in 
which  any  person  or  corporation  possessing  a  moderate  capital  is  able  to 
produce  the  product  at  approximately  equal  advantage  with  the  majority 
of  the  persons  already  engaged  in  the  industry. 


i 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      283 

of  monopolies  is  that,  unregulated,  they  lead  to  an  absorption 
by  small  groups  of  too  large  a  share  of  the  social  surplus. 
Under  the  old  theory  of  competition,  such  a  business  hyper- 
trophy was  impossible,  because  high  profits  would  attract 
new  competitors  and  profits  would  fall.  But  to-day  com- 
petition is  aborted,  and  shares  more  modestly  with  monopoly 
the  rule  of  the  industrial  world.  We  cannot  trust  to  com- 
petition to  reduce  the  monopoly  profits  of  the  anthracite 
carrying  railroads,  just  as  we  cannot  afford  to  throw  our- 
selves upon  the  " enlightened  selfishness"  of  these  corpora- 
tions. 

Hitherto  our  federal  government  has  lagged  far  behind 
the  governments  of  western  Europe  in  the  matter  of  direct 
ownership  and  management  of  businesses.  Such  progress 
as  has  been  made  along  these  lines  has  taken  the  form 
of  a  gradual  growth  of  functions  already  exercised.  The 
government  has  enormously  expanded  a  number  of  non- 
profit-earning businesses,  in  which  it  has  long  since  en- 
gaged. 

It  is  probable,  however,  that  a  considerable  extension  of 
the  federal  government's  ownership  and  direction  of  busi- 
ness will  take  place  in  the  future.  Three  factors  are  leading 
in  this  direction.  One  is  the  increasingly  evident  monopoly 
character  of  many  large  businesses;  a  second  is  the  im- 
provement in  our  civil  service;  a  third  is  the  progressive 
democratization  of  the  government.  As  monopoly  invades 
Business,  the  choice  lies  between  government  and  private 
monopoly,  instead  of  between  government  monopoly  and 
competition.  The  monopoly  element  in  the  business  aligns 
"the  many"  against  a  few  insiders.  As  the  civil  service 
improves,  moreover,  the  government  is  enabled  to  conduct 
business  both  honestly  and  efficiently.  As  the  state  becomes 
increasingly  democratized,  the  people  accept  it  as  their 
natural  representative,  as  opposed  to  an  entrenched  indus- 
trial oligarchy  in  a  monopolized  business. 


284  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  logic  of  the  situation  seems  to  demand  that  where 
there  are  no  advantages  in  the  private  industry  from 
individual  initiative,  or  where  those  advantages  do  not 
overweigh  the  advantages  which  the  state  could  secure 
from  the  conduct  of  the  industry,  the  business  should 
be  taken  over  by  the  state  after  compensation  to  owners, 
and  should  be  conducted  by  the  state  under  conditions 
which  guarantee  reasonable  permanence,  stability,  and 
security  to  all  engaged,  while  preserving  a  regulated  com- 
petition within  the  industry  with  promotion  for  extra 
ability  or  extra  effort  (according  to  definite  rules  of 
preferment)  and  with  suitable  rewards,  monetary  or  other- 
wise. 

How  far  and  how  rapidly  the  federal  government  will 
take  over  private  business  is  a  question  which  to-day  can- 
not yet  be  answered.  It  seems  by  no  means  improbable 
that  the  government  will  shortly  take  over  the  express  busi- 
ness by  embarking  upon  the  lucrative  and  easily  conducted 
parcels  post.  It  will  probably  extend  its  banking  busi- 
ness. It  may  not  improbably  take  over  the  telegraph 
systems  of  the  country,  which  have  developed  slowly  be- 
cause they  have  been  run  so  exclusively  for  profit.  The 
government  may  enormously  increase  its  business  of  pro- 
viding itself  with  supplies,  with  ships,  and  harbors,  and  blot- 
ting paper.  It  may  engage  more  and  more  largely  in  the 
construction  of  irrigation  dams  and  in  the  sale  of  water  to 
a  larger  number  of  farmers.  It  may  attain  to  a  preeminent 
position  in  the  lumber  business  of  the  country.  Beyond 
these  proximate  fields  lie  others  which  may  or  may  not  come 
to  be  occupied.  The  government  may  (and  if  regulation 
fails,  it  will)  buy,  own,  and  operate  the  railroads  of  the 
country ;  it  may  own  and  operate  the  coal  mines.  It  may 
in  time  take  step  after  step  towards  an  ownership  of  those 
large,  easily  overseen,  and  inherently  monopolistic  businesses 
where   centralization  and  subordination  rule,   and  where 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMbCRACY      285 

the  choice  lies  between  a  government  monopoly  and  a  private 
monopoly.1 

It  is  partly  the  fear  of  such  a  possible  extension  of  govern- 
ment ownership  and  operation  that  is  at  the  base  of  much 
of  the  opposition  to  the  policy  of  conserving  our  natural 
resources.  This  policy,  one  of  the  most  elementary  forms 
of  business  socialization,  was  dictated  by  pressing  need.  Our 
supposedly  unlimited  supplies  of  timber  were  proved  to  be 
nearing  exhaustion.2  "Our  coal  supplies  are  so  far  from 
being  inexhaustible  that  if  the  increasing  rate  of  consumption 
shown  by  the  figures  of  the  last  seventy-five  years  continues 
to  prevail,  our  supplies  of  anthracite  coal  will  last  but  fifty 
years  and  of  bituminous  coal  less  than  two  hundred  years/'3 
Yet  despite  this  threatening  dearth,  public  foresight  is  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  our  former  free-handed  American 
practice  that  thousands  of  our  conservatives  were  found  to 
be  bitterly  antagonistic  to  conservation. 

Intrinsically  conservation  is  nothing  but  saving;  it  is 
the  common  lot  against  the  looters.     Though  its  opponents 

1  An  exactly  analogous  development  under  similar  circumstances  and 
for  like  reasons  is  already  taking  place  in  our  States  and  especially  in  our 
cities.  Municipal  ownership  and  operation  of  public  services  —  the  fur- 
nishing to  the  citizens  of  water,  gas,  electricity,  traction  services,  etc.  — 
seem  inevitable  as  we  progress  towards  a  purification  and  democratization 
of  municipal  government.  In  1908  American  cities  (each  with  a  popu- 
lation of  over  30,000)  spent  $275,000,000  on  account  of  new  properties, 
and  the  City  of  New  York  alone  received  over  $18,000,000  from  revenues 
of  public  service  enterprises.  American  cities  are  far  behind  the  cities 
of  England  and  of  the  continent  of  Europe  in  everything  partaking  of  the 
nature  of  civic  prevision,  and  especially  in  the  foresighted  boldness  which 
leads  to  an  extension  of  civic  functions.  The  trend,  however,  is  in  that 
direction. 

2  "The  lowest  estimate  reached  by  the  Forest  Service  of  the  timber 
now  standing  in  the  United  States  is  1400  billion  feet,  board  measure; 
the  highest  2500  billion.  The  present  annual  consumption  is  approxi- 
mately 100  billion  feet,  while  the  annual  growth  is  but  a  third  of  our  con- 
sumption, or  from  30  to  40  billion  feet."  Pinchot,  Gifford,  "The  Fight 
for  Conservation."     New  York  (1910),  p.  14. 

8  Pinchot,  G.,  op.  cit.,  p.  6. 


286  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

represent  it  as  a  dog-in-the-manger  policy,  as  a  plan  to  put 
our  natural  resources  into  "cold  storage,"  in  reality  con- 
servation is  opposed,  not  to  use,  but  to  private  appropria- 
tion, or  at  least  to  unfair,  unequal,  and  wasteful  appropria- 
tion. Conservation  is  merely  a  policy  of  protecting  the 
public  interest  in  our  national  forests,  lands,  mines,  and  water 
powers. 

Despite  its  seeming  innocence,  however,  the  policy  of  con- 
servation carries  with  it  certain  implications,  disquieting  not 
only  to  the  hopeful  spoilers  of  the  public  domain,  but  to 
many  of  their  innocently  eloquent  coadjutors.  In  Alaska 
and.  else  where  there  are  still  some  billions  of  dollars  of  na- 
tional property,  and  it  now  seems  probable,  in  the  light  of 
our  recently  developed  "conservation  sentiment/ '  that  the 
nation  may  lease  this  property  for  a  valuable  consideration, 
with  the  result  that  the  people  will  share  in  the  profits  of 
exploitation.  It  is  bad  enough  in  the  eyes  of  many  honest 
citizens  that  the  state  have  temporal  possessions  at  all; 
that  it  should  actually  make  profits  (thus  lowering  itself  to 
the  level  of  mere  financiers)  seems  to  our  profit  seekers  in- 
congruous and  almost  immoral.  But  an  issue  even  more 
dire  remains  in  the  background.  If  the  state  presumes  to 
withhold  national  resources  from  private  capital,  then  at 
some  future  time  it  may  actually  go  farther.  It  may  not 
only  keep  but  develop  its  mines,  forests,  and  water  powers. 
It  may  go  into  the  mining,  lumbering,  and  electrical  busi- 
nesses.    It  may  compete  with  private  business. 

The  tendency  of  the  government  to  go  into  such  businesses 
is  reenforced  whenever  regulation  meets  with  failure.  There 
are  times  when  men  feel  that  the  nation  is  flouted  and 
mocked  by  the  trust ;  is  only  half -obeyed  and  is  wholly 
blamed.  Occasionally  we  tire  of  having  the  national  gov- 
ernment act  as  chaperon  to  the  trust.1 

1  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  trust  (especially  if  exposed  to  censorious 
tongues  of  investors  or  legislators),  a  certain  amount  of  public  chaperonage 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      287 

/    Where,  however,  regulation  succeeds,  where  ends  similar 
!  to  those  secured  by  government  ownership  may  be  obtained 
^through  the  enforcement  of  uniform  laws,  it  is  often  pref- 
erable to  leave  the  business  in  private  hands  subject  to 
public   control.     Whether   a   particular   business,    affected 
with  a  public  interest,  is  better  adapted  to  government  opera- 
tion or  to  private  operation  with  government  regulation  de- 
pends upon  a  number  of  conditions  and  is  a  question  which 
the  advocates  of  industrial  socialization  need  not  decide  in 
advance.     They  may  proceed  as   does   the  court,    which 
indulges  in  wide-ranging  obiter  dicta,  but  cautiously  decides 
each  case  upon  its  merits. 

What  will  ultimately  decide  in  each  case  the  question  be- 
tween government  operation  and  government  regulation 
(when  one  of  the  two  is  desirable)  will  be  the  relative  effi- 
ciency of  the  two  methods.  There  are  certain  definite  limits 
set  to  an  extension  of  government  ownership  by  the  neces- 
sity of  preserving  the  highest  possible  industrial  efficiency.1 
While  the  federal  government  is  becoming  yearly  more 
efficient,  and  while  the  vast  private  monopolies  often  show 
the  same  industrial  weaknesses  as  government  does,  neverthe- 
less there  remains  a  certain  advantage  with  the  trust,  owing 
to  the  greater  play  of  the  desire  for  profits,  the  greater 
elasticity  of  its  arrangements,  and  the  wider  latitude  given 
to  its  directors.  Industrial  autonomy,  however  clear  its 
drawbacks,  does  at  least  produce  a  hard,  alert,  wide-awake 
industrial  agent.     The  disadvantage  of  the  trust  is  that  it  is 

is  advantageous,  since  the  presence  of  a  duenna,  however  dull  and  deaf, 
covers  a  multitude  of  financial  indiscretions.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the 
"regulated"  corporation,  there  should  be  enough  regulation  to  give  con- 
fidence, but  not  enough  to  regulate. 

1  A  socialized  industry  must  have  a  considerable  efficiency  because  the 
socialized  democracy  of  which  it  is  a  part  will  be  one  with  a  high  cost  of 
maintenance.  It  will  be  a  society  which  will  do  without  child  labor  and 
without  excessive  toil  of  men  and  momen.  It  will  spend  enormous  sums 
on  education.  A  high  standard  of  living  maintained  by  a  large  population 
means  inevitably  an  enormous  national  expenditure. 


288  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

too  likely  to  sacrifice  the  public  interest  and  even  the  interest 
of  the  investors  to  a  series  of  private  interests,  which  are 
excessively  stimulated.  The  disadvantage  of  public  owner- 
jship,  on  the  other  hand,  is  that  it  tends  to  develop  too  little 
that  sharp  private  interest  which  leads  to  unobserved  extra 
exertions  and  to  a  keener  and  more  intelligent  applica- 
SJtion. 

/    A  compromise  between  this  public  interest  and  the  private 
/  interest  is  sought  to  be  effected  by  government  regulation. 
S>v  The  object  of  government  regulation  is  to  combine  the  ad- 
vantages of  individual  initiative  and  of  public  control. 

Against  every  such  exercise  of  government  regulation  the 
theory  of  industrial  autonomy  is  opposed.  This  theory 
maintains  that,  on  the  whole,  the  welfare  of  society  will 
best  be  subserved  by  the  largest  practicable  autonomy  of 
business.  It  presupposes  the  least  possible  limitation  of 
a  perfect  freedom  of  contract ;  of  the  right  of  a  man  to  work 
when  and  where  and  how  he  will ;  of  the  right  of  the  man- 
ufacturer to  run  his  business  in  his  own  way.  In  its  crassest 
form  the  theory  expresses  itself  in  the  sentence,  "Business 
must  be  independent  of  politics." 

What  this  engaging  phrase  really  means  is  that  society, 
politically  organized  (and  to-day  it  is  only  politically  that 
the  whole  of  Society  is  democratically  organised),  should 
have  no  control  over  the  industrial  processes  by  which  it 
lives.  Industrial  autonomy  contemplates  a  state  within 
a  state;  an  industrial  power  dividing  actual  sovereignty 
with  a  political  power.  Industrial  autonomy  would  subject 
society  to  business.1 

1  There  is  a  modified  and  weakened  version  of  industrial  autonomy 
expressed  in  such  phrases  as  "the  trusteeship  of  wealth"  and  assuming 
that  our  industrial  leaders  are  holding  and  directing  the  wealth  of  the  com- 
munity in  the  community's  ultimate  interest.  Between  this  theory,  how- 
ever, and  the  ordinary  economic  and  legal  tenets  of  its  adherents,  there 
are  many  uncomfortable  contradictions.  The  "trustees"  seem  unwilling 
to  be  held  to  an  accounting.     They  seem  to  believe  that  the  rare  qualities 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      289 

This  theory,  however,  although  once  imposing,  is  now  only 
a  theory  of  shreds  and  patches.  So  many  strands  have  been 
taken  from  the  fabric  that  nothing  but  the  most  devoted 
blindness  can  discern  the  original  pattern.  We  have  ridden 
roughshod  over  the  sacred  privacy  of  business.  We  have 
drawn  ledgers  and  daybooks  and  bank  presidents  into  the 
profane  daylight.  We  have  compelled  employers  to  put 
guards  on  machinery  (even  when  no  one  but  the  factory 
inspector  wanted  them).  We  have  forbidden  landlords  from 
letting  their  empty  premises  to  men  who  clamored  at  the 
gates.  We  have  declared  that  a  railroad  rate  may  not  be 
charged  (even  though  the  passenger  stands  ready  to  pay  it)  ; 
that  a  service  must  be  improved,  even  though  the  shipper 
demands  no  improvement.  Surely,  at  first  blush,  it  seems 
reasonable  to  allow  a  seller  to  sell  cheap.  Nevertheless,  a 
railroad  corporation  is  forbidden  to  sell  transportation  be- 
low the  market  rate ;  and  a  railroad  president,  who  out  of 
kindness  gives  (not  sells)  a  pass  to  a  friendly  legislator,  may 
for  his  complaisance  go  to  jail.1 

There  was  never  a  time  when  the  government  held  entirely 
aloof  from  industry.  Even  in  the  palmiest  days  of  Ameri- 
can individualism,  there  was  always  a  certain  expression  of 
industrial  socialization,  since  without  some  subordination 
of  private  initiative  to  public  welfare,  business  itself  is 
impossible.2  Then,  as  now,  the  penal  law  took  cognizance 
of  the  rudiments  of  business  socialization.  There  might  be 
profit  in  the  unrestricted  sale  of  poison,  but  the  disadvan- 
tages of  such  unregulated  sales  so  manifestly  overweighed 
any  good  arising  from  profits  and  wages  that  the  business 
was  either  regulated  or  forbidden. 

of  trusteeship  may  be  inherited  and  devised.     They  do  not  fix  any  time 
at  which  the  ward  may  be  expected  to  arrive  at  an  age  of  discretion. 

1  That  is,  he  may  theoretically  go  to  jail,  which  is  the  pleasantest  way 
of  going. 

2  Even  the  California  Vigilance  Committees  recognized  that  horse 
stealing  was  a  business  which  '/interfered  with  business." 


290  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Certain  other  industries  in  which  there  is  supposed  to  be 
an  excess  of  resultant  evil  over  good  have  also  been  legally 
destroyed.  For  over  half  a  century  Maine  has  prohibited 
the  manufacture  and  private  sale  of  alcoholic  beverages, 
and  recently  the  country  has  been  swept  by  a  prohibition 
wave  which  in  many  towns,  counties,  and  states  has  closed 
saloons  and  has  annihilated  businesses  built  up  on  the  till 
then  tolerated  drink  habit.  Laws  against  gambling  have 
diminished  the  value  of  race  tracks,  pool  rooms,  and  tele- 
graph systems,  while  the  prohibition  of  the  sale  of  fire- 
crackers to  our  patriotic  youth  has  meant  fewer  fires,  fewer 
funerals,  and  slimmer  profits.  The  principle  is  well  estab- 
lished that  the  continued  existence  of  many  businesses  de- 
pends, not  on  the  demand  for  their  product,  but  on  the  will 
of  the  general  community. 

Despite  the  opposition,  therefore,  of  those  who  believe 
that  the  state  should  hold  " hands  off,"  the  governmental 
regulation  of  business  is  steadily  progressing  in  America. 
To  an  increasing  extent  the  federal  government  undertakes 
the  control  of  corporations.  Especially  in  railroad  legisla- 
tion, great  progress  has  been  made.  The  Interstate  Com- 
merce Law  of  1887  gave  to  a  Government  Commission  the 
right,  among  other  rights,  to  pass  upon  the  reasonableness 
of  rates,  while  forbidding  rebates  and  discriminations  by 
railroads  in  favor  of  persons  or  localities.  The  law  of  1906 
still  further  strengthened  the  power  of  the  federal  govern- 
ment. The  Interstate  Commerce  Commission  was  given 
the  right  to  fix  reasonable  rates  upon  application  of  a  ship- 
per of  an  interested  locality;  in  other  words,  was  granted 
the  enormous  power  of  determining  the  price  of  all  services 
rendered  by  railroads  doing  an  annual  business  of  two  and 
one  half  billions  of  dollars.  By  a  series  of  laws  between 
1887  and  1910,  the  power  of  the  Interstate  Commerce  Com- 
mission has  been  extended  to  all  common  carriers  engaged 
in  the  carriage  of  oil  (pipe  lines) ;    to  telegraph,  telephone, 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      291 

and  cable  companies;  while  the  jurisdiction  of  the  Com- 
mission has  been  extended  as  to  through  rates  and  joint 
rates,  freight  classification,  switch  connections,  etc.  The 
Commission  has  also  been  granted  the  right  to  make  in- 
vestigations on  its  own  motion,  without  awaiting  the  ini- 
tiative of  an  injured  shipper.  By  the  Act  of  March  2,  1893, 
railroads  were  obliged  to  equip  their  cars  with  automatic 
couplers  and  other  safety  devices,  and  by  the  law  of  April 
14,  1910,  this  act  was  supplemented  by  requiring  railroads  to 
equip  their  cars  with  sill  steps,  hand  brakes,  ladders,  running 
boards,  and  grab  irons,  and  the  Interstate  Commerce  Com- 
mission was  empowered  to  designate  the  number,  dimensions, 
location,  and  manner  of  application  of  these  appliances.  The 
Arbitration  Act  of  1898  provided  for  government  mediation 
between  interstate  railroads  and  their  employees.  The  Inter- 
state Commerce  laws  prescribe  a  uniform  system  of  account- 
ing for  all  railroad  corporations,  a  filing  of  annual  reports, 
and  an  inspection  by  the  Commission  of  all  accounts,  records, 
and  memoranda.  By  the  law  of  1910,  a  special  commission 
is  provided  to  investigate  the  issuance  of  railroad  stocks  and 
bonds.  Step  by  step  the  whole  business  of  transportation 
and  communication  is  more  and  more  subjected  in  all  its  parts 
and  in  all  its  relations  to  a  strict  government  regulation 
in  the  public  interest. 

f^In  the  future  we  shall  enormously  increase  the  extent  of 
regulation.  Not  only  can  we  pursue  an  active  social  policy 
by  means  of  the  regulation  of  industry,  but  we  can  also  so 
direct  and  restrain  and  guide  the  strong  economic  impulses 
of  society  as  to  make  the  product  of  industry  not  only  larger, 

^J^ut  more  widely  and  more  fairly  distributed.  Not  only  can 
we  conserve  our  natural,  and  reserve  our  national,  resources; 
not  only  can  we  retain  for  the  people  the  franchises,  grants, 
and  valuable  privileges  which  they  now  possess  or  which 
will  come  to  them  in  the  future ;  but  we  can  so  regulate  busi- 
ness as  to  prevent  or  lessen  waste,  internal  friction,  inter- 


292  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

business  friction,  the  excessive  fluctuations  of  seasonal 
trades,  the  wide  fluctuations  between  good  years  and  bad 
years,  the  duplication  of  plant  or  product,  the  production 
of  useless  or  deleterious  articles,  the  use  of  chicanery  and  of 
false  representation,  the  extortions  of  monopoly,  the  unfair, 
unequal,  and  uneconomical  distribution  of  the  product,  etc., 
etc.  We  should  aim  to  secure  at  the  lowest  possible  cost  in 
effort  the  greatest  possible  production  of  articles  worth 
consuming,  and  so  distributed  as  to  give  the  greatest  possible 
satisfaction  in  their  consumption. 

In  the  regulation  of  industry  it  is  not  necessary  or  desirable 
to  pass  laws  where  the  personal  interests  involved,  whether 
of  employer  or  employed,  of  seller  or  buyer,  of  director, 
manager,  promoter,  or  investor,  are  capable  of  accomplishing 
the  same  result.  It  is  important  that  the  democracy  make 
use  of  all  existing  agencies  for  the  attainment  of  its  industrial 
I     program. 

One  of  the  most  representative  and  powerful  of  such 
\agencies  is  the  labor  organization.  The  trade-union  is  not 
ah  urbane  body  of  abnegating  workmen  united  for  the  good 
of  the  employers  or  for  that  of  the  general  community.  It 
is  not  without  fear,  nor  without  reproach.  Nor,  for  that 
matter,  were  the  mailed  barons  who  extorted  Magna  Charta 
from  King  John ;  nor  the  tedious  old  councilors  who  secured 
the  liberties  of  the  towns ;  nor  the  purse-proud  Commons 
who  won  a  measure  of  political  democracy  (for  their  own 
class)  by  withholding  their  money,  as  the  trade-unionists 
to-day  withhold  their  labor.  In  point  of  fact  the  trade- 
union  is  a  group  of  workingmen  pursuing  their  joint  interests 
in  much  the  same  spirit  as  each  member  might  be  supposed 
to  pursue  his  individual  interests.  But  because  those  in- 
terests are  joint  and  because  in  general  they  are  the  interests 
of  people  who  are  least  represented  in  industry,  the  trade- 
unionists  in  what  has  been  called  their  " corporate  egotism" 
are  promoting  industrial  democracy.     Actually,  trade-union- 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      293 

ists  are  far  better  democrats  than  their  immediate  inter- 
ests necessitate,  since  their  feeling  of  solidarity  (except 
among  a  minority)  stretches  far  beyond  the  boundaries  of 
their  trade.1 

While,  however,  it  is  not  necessary  to  secure  for  working- 
men  what  their  trade  unions  have  already  secured  for  them,  it 
is  desirable,  in  the  interests  of  fairer-minded  employers  them- 
selves, to  make  uniform  the  progress  already  attained,  and  to 
enormously  extend  the  scope  of  factory  and  labor  legislation, 
in  order  to  lessen  hours,  improve  sanitary  conditions  of 
factories,  decrease  the  mortality  and  sickness  in  the  trades, 
and  generally  to  improve  conditions  which  are  as  much  a 
part  of  the  workman's  real  wage  as  are  the  dollars  which  he 
finds  in  his  pay  envelope.2 

1  In  America  the  great  mass  of  farmers,  small  tradesmen,  and  profes- 
sional men  fail  to  sympathize  with  the  trade-union  through  lack  of  an 
understanding  of  its  fundamental  aims  and  of  the  environment  of  the  men 
who  stand  for  those  aims.  The  average  outside  individual  objects  to  the 
trade-union,  not  because  it  insists  on  higher  wages  (which  all  are  willing 
to  concede  —  provided  some  one  else  pays  them)  but  because  it  demands 
"the  recognition  of  the  union."  Actually,  however,  in  our  more  and  more 
centralized  industry  this  demand  for  recognition  is  the  nearest  possible 
approach  to  a  real  industrial  democracy  or  even  to  a  real  industrial  liberty 
for  the  workers.  The  kindly  and  often  sympathetic  opponents  of  the  closed 
shop  and  of  the  recognition  of  the  union  appeal  to  the  freedom  of  every 
individual,  unionist  or  non-unionist,  to  make  a  fair  contract  with  his  em- 
ployer. It  is  perhaps  a  pleasanter  ideal  than  collective  bargaining  with 
striking,  picketing,  and  a  compulsory  membership  in  a  union,  but  it  is  an 
ideal,  which,  for  the  present,  is  unattainable  in  many  trades. 

2  Whether  we  shall  within  the  near  future  prescribe  minimum  wages 
by  law,  as  has  recently  been  done  for  several  trades  in  the  United  King- 
dom, will  depend  upon  whether  or  not  we  attain  the  desired  results  by  other 
means.  It  was  once  held  that  it  was  economically  unthinkable  —  in 
fact,  almost  impious  —  to  attempt  to  fix  wages  or  prices  by  law. 
Within  certain  bounds  this  was  true.  If  you  make  legal  wages  so  high 
or  legal  prices  so  low  that  no  incentive  remains  for  production,  then  pro- 
duction will  cease.  But  there  is  a  wide  margin  of  action  between  this  and 
the  establishment  of  definite  minima  of  wages  considerably  above  those 
in  our  worst-paid  trades.  Within  that  margin  it  is  economically  as  pos- 
sible to  regulate  wages  as  to  regulate  hours  or  sanitary  conditions.     It  is 


294  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

In  some  industrial  situations,  regulation  must  be  plenary, 
detailed,  and  all-comprehensive.  In  other  situations  it  may 
be  more  restricted.  In  still  others,  it  may  be  limited  to 
a  mere  insistence  upon  publicity  of  operations. 

To  an  increasing  extent  we  are  putting  our  trust  in 
business  publicity.  It  is  a  splendid  means  of  unchaining 
public  resentment  or  of  inciting  public  approval.  Knowledge 
permits  potent  economic  forces  to  unbind  themselves.  Con- 
sumers, investors,  voters,  and  the  community  in  general  are 
aided  in  their  action  by  the  certainty  which  publicity  brings. 
Where  publicity  fails  to  restrain,  a  more  thoroughgoing 
regulation  is  necessary.  Where  the  thoroughgoing  regulation 
is  in  prospect,  publicity  is  an  excellent  antecedent. 

How  much  publicity  is  required  depends  upon  the  business, 
upon  the  extent  to  which  it  is  invested  with  a  public  interest, 
upon  whether  there  already  exists  a  beneficent  regulation  by 
competition,  upon  the  extent  of  the  dangers  which  may  flow 
from  secrecy.  Many  men  still  claim  that  their  particular 
businesses  cannot  be  run  with  publicity.  This  is  true  only 
to  the  extent  that  a  man  whose  business  secrets  are  known  is 
at  a  disadvantage  in  competition  with  a  man  whose  business 
secrets  are  unknown.  Publicity,  doubtless,  works  often  to 
the  advantage  of  the  large  purse  and  the  established  firm, 
since  those  who  are  already  strong  have  a  relative  advan- 
tage in  securing,  let  us  say,  credit  facilities.  On  the  other 
hand,  secrecy  and  the  power  to  exert  undue  influence  work 
to  the  advantage  of  the  unscrupulous. 

Complete  industrial  socialization  does  not  stop  short  at 
production  and  sale.  It  does  not  content  itself  with  regu- 
lating the  conditions  under  which  articles  shall  be  produced 
or  the  prices  at  which  they  shall  be  sold.     It  requires  a 

as  easy  to  forbid  the  manufacturers  of  cottons  or  woolens  to  pay  less  than 
a  denned  scale  of  wages  as  it  is  to  forbid  the  manufacture  of  counterfeit 
coins  or  the  distilling  of  untaxed  whisky.  All  that  is  required  is  a  changed 
point  of  view  in  ourselves  and  our  judges. 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      295""^ 

reasonable  and  just  distribution  of  the  product  of  industry,  a  / 
fair  adjustment  as  between  wages,  profits,  interest,  rent,  and  \ 
the  share  of  the  state.     It  affects  the  redistribution  of  wealth   1 
after  the  ordinary  distribution  has  taken  place.     It  affects 
past  accumulations,  and  the  returns  upon  past  accumulations. 

There  are  several  ways  in  which  the  continued  growth  of 
enormous  fortunes  may  be  hampered,  if  not  prevented.  The 
social  wealth  to  be  created  may  be  deflected  to  the  commu- 
nity by  a  governmental  acquisition  of  natural  monopolies. 
During  the  next  one  hundred  years  American  railroads, 
American  mines,  American  forests,  and  American  lands  are 
likely  to  increase  stupendously  in  value.  With  any  reason- 
ably large  growth  of  population,  these  properties  should  in- 
crease to  an  amount  which  is  entirely  beyond  anything  in  our 
experience,  and  is  almost  beyond  our  conception.  By  the 
gradual  acquisition  of  such  properties,  or  of  strategic 
elements  of  such  properties,1  the  community  could  divert 
to  itself  a  large  part  of  this  probable  new  wealth.  It  could 
accomplish  this  purpose  by  taxation,  by  the  direct  and  in- 
creasing taxation  of  the  unearned  increment.  The  state 
might  make  a  periodical  valuation  of  all  property  invested 
with  a  public  interest,  as  well  as  of  all  property  to  which  in  a 
marked  degree  a  future  unearned  increment  will  adhere,  and 
at  regular  intervals  might  take  for  itself  a  part  (and  a  con- 
stantly increasing  part)  of  the  unearned  increment  which  had 
accrued  since  the  valuation  immediately  preceding.2 

Theoretically  there  are  no  limits  to  state  action  along  these 
lines.  The  sovereign  state  has  a  primordial,  intrinsic, 
underlying  right  to  all  property,  more  valid  in  the  final  in- 
stance than  the  property  right  vested  in  the  legal  owner. 

1  If  the  nation  owned  the  railroads  and  thus  controlled  transportation 
rates,  it  could  easily  determine  what  part  of  the  value  of  mines  and  forests 
should  belong  to  it,  and  what  portion  should  belong  to  the  legal  owners. 
The  anthracite  railroads  determined  the  value  of  the  anthracite  mines  by 
fixing  the  charges  for  the  transportation  of  anthracite  coal. 

2  See  the  English  procedure  under  the  Lloyd-George  Budget. 


296  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

The  right  to  tax  involves  the  right  to  destroy.  In  no  other 
great  country  of  the  world,  moreover,  would  this  residual 
claim  of  the  nation  be  so  capable  of  being  enforced,  since  the 
property  of  American  citizens  is  so  largely  invested  at  home. 
The  British  owner  of  South  American  gold  mines  may  escape 
British  taxation  by  removing  to  a  foreign  country,  but  in 
America  the  expatriation  of  the  owner  cannot  effect  the 
withdrawal  of  his  capital.  The  property  is  here.  To  an 
overwhelming  extent,  the  wealth  of  the  nation  is  irrevocably 
and  forever  situate  in  this  country. 

Even  after  the  wealth  has  passed  into  the  hands  of  indi- 
viduals it  is  not  beyond  the  reach  of  the  state.  By  progres- 
sive taxes  on  property,  incomes,  or  inheritances  (including 
taxation  upon  gifts  inter  vivos  within  a  certain  period  prior 
to  death),  the  state  can  do  much  towards  preventing  too 
insensate  an  accumulation  of  individual  wealth.  Theoreti- 
cally there  are  no  limits  to  taxation  along  these  lines.  The 
nation  might  legally  make  itself  sole  heir  to  each  of  its 
citizens. 

Actually,  no  such  extreme  contingency  is  at  all  probable. 
The  levying  of  a  one  hundred  per  cent  inheritance  tax  would 
not  meet  with  the  approbation  of  more  than  an  insignificant 
and  ineffectual  fraction  of  the  people.  A  far  more  moderate 
tax  would  largely  dry  up  the  wells  of  enterprise ;  and  even  an 
entirely  reasonable,  and  from  a  social  point  of  view  a  very 
low,  inheritance  or  income  tax  is  evaded  systematically  and 
flagrantly.  State  income  taxes  are  of  practically  no  value 
in  reducing  inequalities  of  wealth,  since  a  man  can  acquire  an 
exempting  citizenship  in  a  neighboring  State  far  more  easily 
than  he  can  secure  a  new  agent  to  look  after  his  property. 
/"^  In  the  socialization  of  wealth  by  means  of  taxation,  two 

/      inevitable  tendencies  are  observable.     The  first  of  these  is 
an  increasing  emphasis  laid  upon  the  national  as  distinct 

\      from  the  State  governments,  since  the  latter  are  not  suffi- 
\    ciently  formidable  to  cope  with  the  gigantic  private  interests 


\ 


THE  INDUSTRIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      297 

to  which  they  may  be  opposed.  The  second  is  a  change  in  our 
conception  of  the  fundamental  purposes  of  taxation. 

The  prevalent  theory  in  America  during  the  last  century 
was  that  taxation  was  to  be  levied  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
raising  government  revenues.  It  should  therefore  be  as 
little  as  possible,  and  should  be  divided  among  the  people 
according  to  their  ability  to  pay.  In  other  words,  it  should 
leave  all  citizens  in  the  same  relative  position  as  it  found  them. 
We  are  now  going  over  more  completely  to  a  conception  of 
taxation  as  an  instrument  for  the  socialization  of  production 
and  wealth ;  as  a  means  of  changing  the  currents  and  direc- 
tions of  distribution.  In  other  words,  the  social,  as  well  as 
the  merely  fiscal,  ends  of  taxation  are  held  in  view.1  / 

With  a  government  ownership  of  some  industries,  with  a 
■ — government  regulation  of  others,  with  publicity  for  all  (to 
the  extent  that  publicity  is  socially  desirable),  with  an  en- 
larged power  of  the  community  in  industry,  and  with  an 
increased  appropriation  by  the  community  of  the  increasing 
social  surplus  and  of  the  growing  unearned  increment,  the 
progressive  socialization  of  industry  will  take  place.  To 
accomplish  these  ends  the  democracy  will  rely  upon  the  trade- 
union,  the  association  of  consumers,  and  other  industrial 
agencies.     It  will,  above  all,  rely  upon  the  state. 

1  The  protective  tariff  (as  opposed  to  the  tariff  for  revenue  only)  had 
an  avowed  social  end.     So  also  taxes  on  the  liquor  trade,  etc. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   POLITICAL   PROGRAM   OF  THE   DEMOCRACY 

THE  democracy  seeks  a  complete  control  over  govern- 
mental machinery  and  processes.     It  seeks  to  break 
the  power  of  a  politically  entrenched  plutocracy,  to  attain 
to  a  government  by  the  people  for  the  people. 
/  Without  such  democratic  control  of  government  there 
/  can  be  no  permanent  democratic  control  of  industry.     For, 
^\in  ultimate  analysis,  we  own  our  house,  inherit  our  farm,  draw 
our  profits,  or  obey  the  factory  bell  by  grace  (or  command)  of 
the  political  sovereign.     Bequest,  inheritance,  private  prop- 
erty, free  contract,  are  subject  to  law.     Law  is  legislative 
enactment,  executive  administration,  judicial  interpretation. 
The  legislature,  executive,  courts,  are,  in  democratic  countries, 
immediately  or  finally,  actually  or  potentially,  the  creatures 
of  politics.     They  are  the  genii  of  the  ballot  box.  y^ 

In  attempting  to  secure  political  control,  the  democracy 
proceeds  along  five  paths.  These  paths  are  (1)  the  demo- 
cratic control  of  parties  and  of  party  nominations ;  (2)  the 
democratic  control  of  elections ;  (3)  the  democratic  control  of 
representatives  already  elected  ;  (4)  direct  legislation  by  the 
people ;  (5)  increased  efficiency  of  the  democratized  govern- 
ment. 

Control  of  political  parties  is  the  very  beginning  of  po- 
litical democracy.  The  people  are  no  longer  content  to  vote 
for  one  of  two  candidates,  collusively  nominated  by  the  allied 
corruption  of  two  parties,  and  foisted  upon  the  public,  as  a 
gambler  " forces"  a  card  upon  a  raw  novice.  In  the  interest 
of  a  popular  election,  a  popular  nomination  is  demanded.  To 
choose  between  candidates,  the  people  must  choose  the  can- 
didates. 

298 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      299 

The  legal  regulation  of  parties,  which  has  already  pro- 
gressed far,  has  been  made  possible  by  one  of  those  subtle 
changes  in  American  political  life,  which,  though  they  leave 
no  mark  upon  constitutions,  fundamentally  alter  the  actual 
bases  of  government.  The  party,  hitherto  unrecognized  by 
our  constitutions  and  laws,  was  forbidden  to  place  its  nomi- 
nees upon  the  official  ballot  unless  the  party  officers  certi- 
fied such  nominations  to  be  genuine.  "  Parties  of  a  certain 
size,  which  had  been  given  a  privileged  position  for  their 
nominees  upon  the  ballot  were,  in  return  for  this  privilege, 
subjected  to  special  restrictions.  It  was  an  easy  step  from 
permitting  the  two  great  parties  to  have  their  candidates 
placed  upon  the  ballot  (when  certified  by  the  party  officials) 
to  requiring  that  these  nominations  should  have  been  made 
only  in  accordance  with  such  rules  and  regulations  as  might 
be  deemed  necessary — in  short,  to  prescribing  in  detail  regu- 
lations governing  the  entire  procedure  of  party  primaries. 
The  party  ceased  to  be  a  purely  voluntary  association,  and 
became  a  recognized  part  of  the  nominating  machinery."  * 

/  Legal  control  of  party  and  primary,  once  initiated,  was 
rapidly  extended.  It  developed  from  a  local  or  special  regu- 
lation, optional  with  the  party,  to  one  which  was  general, 
State-wide,  and  compulsory.  It  led  in  a  number  of  States  to 
St  ate- wide  compulsory  and  universal  direct  primaries. 

Prior  to  the  adoption  in  many  of  our  States  of  direct  pri- 
maries, the  average  political  partisan  cast  his  ballot,  not  for 
the  ultimate  candidate,  but  for  men  who  chose  men  who  chose 
the  candidate.  The  result  was  often  a  complete  travesty 
upon  popular  rights.  Controlling  financial  interests  ac- 
quired what  was  almost  an  acknowledged  right  to  nominate 

/the  candidates.     With  direct  primaries,  on  the  other  hand, 

V  the  people  directly  select  their  own  candidates.     Where 

direct  nominations  are  reenforced  by  laws  against  corrupt 

1  Merriam  (C.  Edward),  "Primary  Elections,".  Chicago  (University  of 
Chicago  Press),  1909,  p.  30, 


300  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

practices,  the  power  of  the  majority  over  the  making  of 
nominations  is  correspondingly  augmented. 

With  each  year  the  popularity  of  party  regulation  and  of  \ 
direct  nominations  becomes  more  evident  and  new  means  are  \ 
devised  to  render  the  system  simpler  and  more  efficacious/ 
"The  Connecticut  democracy,"  says  the  1910  State  plat- 
form, " favors  the  direct  primary  form  of  nominations  in 
order  that  the  people  may  select  their  own  servants,"  and 
Republicans,  Prohibitionists,  Socialists,  and  others  are  in 
full  accord.  "The  Direct  Primary  Law,"  say  the  New 
Hampshire  Republicans,  "has  proved  an  unqualified  success. 
The  choice  of  delegates  to  national  conventions  should  be 
brought  under  its  provisions."  Everywhere  there  is  a  de- 
mand for  an  extension,  simplification,  and  improvement  of 
the  system  of  direct  primaries.  Utah  Republicans  (1910) 
clamor  for  a  "direct  primary  law,  by  which  all  general  offi- 
cers, including  candidates  for  the  United  States  Senate,  may 
be  chosen  by  vote  by  the  whole  people."  Iowa  Democrats 
and  Minnesota  Republicans  ask  for  a  lessening  of  the  ex- 
penses attendant  upon  primary  elections,  while  in  other 
States  the  demand  is  made  for  the  publication  of  the  expenses 
of  all  candidates  for  the  nomination  prior  to  the  primary. 
New  York  Republicans  insist  "that  the  same  safeguards 
should  surround  primary  elections  as  have  been  shown  to  be 
effective  in  preventing  repeating  and  frauds  at  general  elec- 
tions." 

■  The  chief  object  of  direct  primaries  and  of  other  proposals 
for  the  democratization  of  the  party  is  to  break  up  the  alli- 
ance between  corrupt  business  and  corrupt  politics.  The 
question  is  often  raised  as  to  whether  men  of  wealth  (because 
of  their  greater  liability  to  taxation  or  for  other  reasons) 
should  not  be  accorded  a  larger  power  in  the  state  than  an 
equal  number  of  penniless  citizens.  So  stated,  however,  the 
problem  is  academic,  for  to-day,  in  all  countries,  men  of 
wealth  possess  this  advantage.     Democracy  is  faced  with  the 


„ 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      301 

problem,  not  of  according  wealth  a  certain  extra  influence 
over  legislation,  but  of  so  limiting  and  moderating  that  influ- 
ence as  to  permit  an  even  partial  effectuation  of  the  will  of 
the  majority. 

Much  of  this  influence  is  ineradicable.  Wealth  gives 
leisure  and  intellectual  opportunities.  Money  buys  pub- 
licity, orators,  advocates.  There  are  always  disinterested 
wealth  worshipers,  who  find  in  the  counsels  of  the  mil- 
lionaire grace,  logic,  and  the  sweetest  reasonableness.  We 
cannot  legislate  against  the  glamour  of  possessions. 

But  the  influence  of  wealth  takes  a  more  tangible  form  when, 
in  the  thick  of  electoral  campaigns,  our  great  corporations, 
not  unsolicited,  draw  near  to  our  party  managers,  and  thrust 
into  their  expectant  hands  a  modest  contribution  to  the 
cause  of  justice  and  liberty.  If  we  are  not  to  be  subdued 
by  the  plutocracy,  we  must  beware  these  Greeks  bearing 
gifts.     We  must  control  the  party  through  its  purse. 

Already  great  progress  has  been  made.  The  reform  of 
the  federal  Civil  Service  during  the  last  thirty  years  has 
tended  towards  the  moralization  and  the  democratization  of 
the  party  by  reducing  on  this  side  the  amount  of  blackmail 
which  it  is  enabled  to  levy.  Laws  against  the  granting  of 
free  passes  by  railroads  have  put  a  stop  to  another  form 
of  party /corruption.  Finally,  the  prohibition  of  campaign 
contributions  by  corporations  and  the  compulsory  publica- 
tion by  the  parties  of  the  source  of  moneys  received  and  of 
the  destination  of  moneys  expended  limit  the  scope  of  an 
evil  financial  influence  upon  the  party. 

The  democratization  of  the  party  and  of  the  primary  is 
chiefly  desired  because  it  leads  to  the  democratization  of 
elections.  About  the  voting  booth  is  fought  the  main 
battle  between  democracy  and  plutocracy. 

The  democratization  of  elections  no  longer  takes  in  the 
main  the  direction  of  an  extension  of  male  suffrage.  For- 
tunately the  federal  Constitution  left  to  the  several  States 


302  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  right  to  determine  the  qualifications  of  voters,1  with  the 
result  that  the  religious  and  property  tests  of  1787,  not  de- 
scending to  us  as  priceless  heritages,  were  rapidly  and  suc- 
cessively abrogated.  Forty  years  after  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution,  De  Tocqueville  could  write  "  Universal  suf- 
frage has  been  adopted  in  all  the  States  of  the  Union." 

This  "  universal  suffrage, "  debarring,  as  it  did,  women  and 
Negroes,  was  an  adult,  male,  white  suffrage,  and  that  in  the 
main  is  what  it  is  to-day.  The  voters,  who  in  1908  were 
qualified  to  vote  for  Taft  or  Bryan,  would  for  the  most  part 
have  been  qualified  in  1840  to  vote  for  Harrison  or  Van 
Buren.  In  1840,  with  few  newspapers,  bad  roads,  and  a 
sparsely  settled  population,  there  were  14.1  voters  to  every 
thousand  of  the  population ;  in  1908,  there  were  not  quite 
17  voters  per  thousand.  Although  full  woman  suffrage  has 
been  established  in  six  of  our  States,  over  95  per  cent  of  the 
adult  women  of  the  country  are  still  without  this  full  vote. 
The  suffrage,  extended  after  the  Civil  War  to  the  Southern 
Negroes,  has  practically  been  withdrawn. 

Nor  is  there  much  likelihood  that,  in  the  near  future,  there 
will  be  any  diversion  of  the  democratic  activities  of  the 
majority  to  the  securing  of  a  wider  vote  for  Negroes.  In 
the  matter  of  Negro  suffrage  we  have  witnessed  a  sharp 
reaction  from  the  noble  optimism  of  fifty  years  ago.  To-day, 
millions  of  men,  discouraged  by  the  dwindling  but  still  large 
residuum  of  Negro  ignorance,  discouraged  by  the  passion 
which  sweeps  like  a  torrid  wind  over  every  phase  of  the 
question,  seek  to  avoid  the  subject  of  Negro  suffrage,  as 
their  grandfathers,  the  " finality  men"  of  the  fifties,  sought 
to  evade  the  subject  of  Negro  slavery.  There  are  sons  of 
Northern  soldiers  who  deplore  the  invidious  distinction 
between  black  ignorance  and  white  ignorance,  between  black 

1  Art.  I,  Sec.  11.  While  the  federal  government  has  the  right  of  creat- 
ing citizens,  the  State  governments,  subject  nominally  to  the  14th  and 
15th  amendments,  have  the  right  to  determine  who  shall  vote. 


s 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      303 

grandfathers  and  white  grandfathers,  but  who  wish  to  post- 
pone the  problem  of  Negro  enfranchisement  until  other  press- 
ing problems  of  our  new  democracy  are  in  process  of  solution. 
Similarly  many  men,  who  have  more  than  a  platonic  affec- 
tion for  woman's  suffrage,  are  too  absorbed  in  the  problem  of 
increasing  the  potency  of  present  voters  to  give  more  than  a 
casual  adherence  to  the  cause  of  the  women.  "Let  us  in- 
crease our  vote,"  these  men  seem  to  say,  "but  above  all 
et  us  make  our  present  vote  count." 

The  first  step  in  making  the  vote  count  was  to  see  that  it 
was  counted.  From  the  beginning  ballot  stuffing,  the  rifling 
(or  stealing)  of  ballot  boxes,  the  adding  of  votes  by  the  most 
fantastic  processes  of  political  arithmetic,  had  made  of  vot- 
ing an  unmeaning,  if  rather  an  impressive,  rite.  Fortu- 
nately the  task  of  remedying  these  evils  was  begun  decades 
ago.  Systems  of  preelection  registration  resulted  in  an 
heroic  purging  of  a  phantom  electorate,  and  stopped  the 
worst  excesses  of  our  "plural"  voters.  The  sweeping  vic- 
tories of  the  Australian  ballot  moderated  the  widespread 
intimidation  of  voters  and  enormously  reduced  the  scope  of 
bribery. 

Even  with  these  reforms,  we  are  far  from  an  absolutely 
democratic  election.  Apart  from  our  gerrymandered  elec- 
toral districts  and  our  non-representation  of  large  minorities 
—  and  even  of  majorities  —  we  still  halt  behind  our  ideals. 
Progress,  however,  is  being  made.  Our  latter-day  democrats 
are  no  longer  satisfied  with  the  husk  of  a  meaningless  vote. 
They  do  not  wish  to  give  their  suffrages  to  candidates  with- 
out knowing  who  they  are,  for  a  vote  in  ignorance  is  no  vote. 
They  do  not  wish  to  vote  for  a  tail  of  insignificant  nobodies 
upon  the  soaring  kite  of  one  conspicuous  candidate.  Finally, 
they  desire  no  more  electoral  middlemen,  but  prefer  to  vote 
directly  for  their  own  representatives,  even  for  United  States 
senators,  rather  than  to  vote  for  men  who  will  vote  for  these 
officials. 


304  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

That  the  American  democracy  is  possessed  of  political 
capacity  and  resourcefulness  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  a 
large  proportion  of  our  United  States  senators  are  already 
being  elected  by  what  is  practically  the  direct  vote  of  the 
people  of  their  State.  The  Constitution  of  the  United 
States  distinctly  prescribes  that  the  Senate  " shall  be  com- 
posed of  two  senators  from  each  State,  chosen  by  the  Legis- 
lature thereof."  *  An  amendment  to  this  constitutional  provi- 
sion has  often  been  proposed,  but  the  indirectly  elected 
senators  have  not  been  precipitate  in  its  welcome.  In  the 
meanwhile,  a  number  of  Western  States  have  used  the  direct 
primary  to  attain  this  result  indirectly.  In  these  States 
any  person  seeking  a  nomination  as  State  legislator  may 
promise  in  advance  that  if  nominated  and  elected  he  will  vote 
for  the  people's  candidate  for  United  States  senator  irre- 
spective of  personal  preferences;  or,  by  declining  so  to  pledge 
r  himself,  he  may  commit  political  suicide.     The  result  is  that 

/  the  recommendation  of  the  people  becomes  binding  upon  all 
legislators  irrespective  of  party,  so  that  it  occasionally  hap- 

I  pens  that  a  State  legislature  of  one  party  elects  a  United 
States  senator  of  the  opposing  party.  With  respect  to  this 
one  function,  the  State  legislators  become  mere  delegates,  as 
automatic  in  their  actions  as  are  the  members  of  the  Elec- 
toral College,  who  choose  the  President.  The  people  elect 
their  own  senators.2 

Even  though  the  people  nominate  and  elect  their  candi- 
date, how  can  they  control  him  after  election  ? 
The  old  solution  of  this  difficulty  was  to  threaten  the  repre- 

1  Art.  I,  Sec.  111. 

2  Senators  thus  directly  nominated  have  constituencies,  but  senators 
elected  according  to  the  old  method  have  none.  The  State  legislators 
who  elect  the  latter  are  politically  short-lived  members  of  assemblies,  which 
lapse  long  before  the  six  years'  term  of  the  Senate  is  over.  Their  repre- 
sentative quality  is  exceedingly  dubious,  since  in  any  modern  sense  of  the 
phrase  a  man  cannot  be  represented  by  any  one  over  whose  selection  he 
does  not  exercise  direct  control. 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY^ 


( 


sentative  that  if  he  betrayed  his  trust  he  would  never  be" 
reelected.  This  method  was  not  efficacious.  The  legisla- 
tor shrewdly  interpreted  the  word  "never"  in  a  Gilbertian 
sense,  as  meaning  "hardly  ever."  The  boss  was  near;  the 
"people"  (to  the  politician  the  word  was  only  a  political 
expression)  were  distant.  Many  a  roistering  legislator 
preferred  a  short  and  a  merry  political  life  to  a  leaner  career 
spread  over  a  longer  period. 

The  new  solution  is  the  recall.  The  recall  is  like  the  long 
arm  of  coincidence.  It  is  always  ready.  It  is  always 
threatening.  In  the  heyday  of  his  political  triumphs,  the 
legislator  is  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  the  recall.  The 
corrupt  official  is  not  even  sure  of  immediate  gleanings,  since 
he  may  be  cut  down  in  his  prime  by  the  very  people  who  have 
just  elected  him. 

The  virtue  of  the  recall,  which  has  already  been  adopted  by 
many  American  cities,  lies  in  its  ease  of  application.  A 
certain  fraction  of  the  qualified  voters  (usually  25  per  cent) 
may  sign  a  petition  for  the  removal  of  any  elected  officer.  In 
the  ensuing  special  election  the  official  is  a  candidate  (unless 
he  specifically  declines  to  run) ;  but  if  he  fails  to  receive  a 
plurality,  he  is  deemed  removed  from  office  as  soon  as  the 
plurality  candidate  qualifies  as  his  successor. 

For  the  time  being  the  recall  is  in  high  favor  with  the 
democracy,  and  the  demand  for  its  adoption  appears  with  in- 
creasing frequency  in  the  platforms  and  protestations  of  the 
political  parties.  It  is  to  be  noted,  however,  that  the  de- 
mocracy does  not  everywhere  proceed  along  identical  lines, 
but  that  in  different  places  and  even  in  the  same  place  it 
proposes  alternative  reforms  for  the  same  evil.  It  labors  for 
the  democratic  control  of  the  party,  while  simultaneously 
striving  for  its  abolition.1  It  asks  at  once  for  the  democrati- 
zation of  the  representative  system  and  for  its  displacement 

1  See  the  movement  for  nominations  by  petition,  which  is  intended  ab- 
solutely to  circumvent  the  party  and  destroy  its  main  use. 


306  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

by  a  direct  democracy,  in  which  the  people,  rather  than  their 
representatives,  will  propose  and  enact  legislation.  The  re- 
call, intended  to  increase  the  control  of  the  people  over  sus- 
pected representatives,  is  likely  to  have  a  useful  life  during 
a  period  of  political  transition,  but  it  is  hardly  probable 
that  it  will  be  widely  used  if  America  goes  over  to  direct 
/democracy.1 

jcC  There  are  two  great  complementary  features  of  direct 
|  legislation, — the  referendum  and  the  initiative. 

The  referendum  is  the  people's  veto.  Under  the  referen- 
J  dum,  bills  passed  by  the  legislature  are  referred  to  the  people, 
either  automatically  or  upon  the  demand  of  a  certain  propor- 
tion of  the  voters,  and  are  accepted  or  rejected  by  the  people. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  initiative  is  a  device  by  which  a 
certain  number  of  electors  may  propose  a  measure,  which, 
with  or  without  the  approval  of  the  legislature,  must  be 
referred  to  the  people.  The  referendum  enables  the  people 
to  veto  undesired  legislation.  The  initiative  enables  the 
people  to  enact  desired  legislation. 

The  fundamental  principle  of  the  referendum  is  that  it  is 
desirable  that  the  voters  have  the  opportunity  of  expressing 
themselves  upon  all  problems  which  they  consider  of  para- 
mount importance.  Our  present  system  is  far  from  this 
ideal.  In  our  presidential  elections,  there  are  always  a  score 
of  issues  and  half  a  dozen  potentially  " paramount"  issues, 
upon  each  of  which  each  of  the  two  great  parties  delivers 
itself  in  emphatic  ambiguities.  The  American  voter,  as 
confused  as  a  child  at  a  four-ringed  circus,  seeks  to  answer  a 
dozen  questions  and  decide  among  a  hundred  candidates,  not 
by  writing  a  three-volume  book,  but  by  putting  his  mark 
under  the  Republican  or  the  Democratic  emblem.  To  state 
his  preference  on  all  these  problems,  "  to  say  aye  or  no  to  these 

1  In  the  Swiss  cantons  the  recall  (on  a  somewhat  different  basis), while 
it  remains  a  possible  weapon  in  times  of  emergency,  is  now  rarely  used, 
inasmuch  as  the  referendum  and  the  initiative  make  an  appeal  to  it  seldom 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      307 

particulars,"  he  would  have  to  borrow  Gargantua's  mouth. 
Instead  —  to  change  the  metaphor  —  he  can  only  wag  his 
tail  up  or  down.  The  result  is  that  post-election  reasons  for 
victory  and  defeat  "are  as  plentiful  as  blackberries,"  and  the 
journals  of  the  opposed  political  parties  are  farther  apart 
in  interpreting  "the  plain  verdict  of  the  people"  than  were 
party  platforms  or  party  candidates  before  election. 

The  referendum  gives  the  dumb  god,  Demos,  a  voice. 
The  referendum,  combined  with  the  initiative,  is  the  yes  or 
no  answer  of  the  people  to  a  definite  question,  propounded  by 
the  legislators  or  by  the  people.  It  is  the  power  of  the  voters 
to  propose  laws  and  amendments  to  the  State  constitution ; 
to  enact  or  reject  such  laws  and  amendments,  and  to  confirm 
or  nullify  all  legislative  action.  It  is  the  ultimate  appeal 
from  the  people's  representatives  to  the  people. 

The  adoption  of  the  referendum  and  initiative  tends  to 
limit  the  range  and  decision  of  our  elected  legislator^/  It 
tends  to  transform  these  legislators  from  representatives, 
possessed  of  personal,  individual  opinions  (although  elected 
because  their  opinions  are  in  supposed  accord  with  those  of 
their  constituents)  into  mere  delegates ;  into  mere  mechanical 
forecasters  and  repeaters  of  popular  deliverances ;  into  par- 
rot-like, political  phonographs.  The  recall,  by  keeping  the 
popular  thumb  upon  the  recalcitrant  lawgiver,  acts  in  the 
same  way. 

The  result  may  not  always  be  good.  A  high-spirited 
statesman,  placed  in  a  position  where  he  may  be  checked, 
halted,  thwarted  —  often,  most  unreasonably  —  where  an 
appeal  lies  from  his  every  action,  where  even  his  tenure 
depends  upon  his  "giving  satisfaction,"  is  tempted  to  with- 
draw from  the  impotent  eminence  of  office ;  or,  if  he  remain, 
he  may  suffer  in  initiative,  courage,  and  self-esteem.  If  we 
adopt  direct  legislation  with  anything  like  logical  consist- 
ency, we  shall  not  have  a  Pitt,  a  Burke,  a  Webster,  a  Cal- 
houn in  every  State  assembly  and  city  council. 


r 


308  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Without  direct  government,  however,  we  have  a  plentiful 
lack  of  such  notables,  and  we  have  blundered  through  a  legis- 
lative century  with  lawgivers  who  were  not  always  high- 
spirited,  nor  even  invariably  honest.  If  a  measure  of  direct 
government  does  not  improve  our  best  legislators,  it  may  ac- 
complish something  equally  important.  It  may  improve  the 
worst. 

*~  Moreover,  although  men  are  crying  that  representative 
government  is  dead  and  that  the  occupation  of  the  legislator 
is  gone,  the  fundamental  issue  in  America  is  in  reality  not 
between  representative  and  direct  government  (both  of  which 
systems  have  merits,  inconveniences,  and  perils),  but  between 
a  misrepresentative,  plutocratic  government  and  a  democratic 
government,  whether  representative,  direct,  or  mixed.  Amer- 
ica is  seeking  the  cure  of  a  seeming  democracy  in  real  de- 
mocracy. If  universal  suffrage  leads  to  ignorant  voting,  the 
cure  is  not  a  restriction  of  the  suffrage,  but  an  education  of  the 
voters.  If  the  party  controls  politics,  then  the  party  must 
be  democratized  or  destroyed.  So  with  our  so-called  repre- 
sentative system.     It  must  be  democratized  or  destroyed. 

The  referendum  is  not  perfect  any  more  than  the  secret 
ballot  or  the  policeman's  club  is  perfect.  It  is  merely  the 
best  expedient  in  the  present  circumstances.  With  the 
referendum  we  shall  doubtless  enact  into  law  a  vast  deal  of 
sublimated  nonsense  —  as  we  do  now  without  the  refer- 
endum. Even  if  the  average  quality  of  our  laws  were  to  be 
somewhat  lowered  by  the  referendum  (which  in  America 
seems  improbable),  we  might  still  accept  that  drawback 
because  of  the  measure  of  insurance  which  the  direct  appeal 
to  the  people  gives  us  against  corrupt  legislation  and  the 
grant  of  valuable  franchises  and  concessions  by  men  who  have 
been  paid  their  price. 

Under  our  so-called  representative  government,  bribery 
becomes  as  safe  and  as  venial  as  mere  perjury.  Bribed  men 
tell  no  tales;  bribers  are  equally  reticent.     When  the  con- 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      309 

sideration  is  a  fee  for  " prof essional  services,"  or  the  chance 
to  be  carried  on  a  broker's  books  and  win  " heads"  or  "tails"  ; 
when  bribery  appears  under  as  many  disguises  as  the  good 
M.  Lecoq,  our  primitive,  punitive  laws,  while  necessary,  are 
singularly  innocuous.  The  incarceration  of  a  few  pitiable 
bribe  takers  (whose  offense  is  mere  unskillfulness)  is  as  little 
consoling  to  the  robbed  people  as  would  be  the  spectacle  of 
thieves  rotting  on  gibbets,  especially  when  the  briber  flour- 
ishes like  a  bay  tree  and  the  franchise  (the  occasion  of  the 
bribe)  is  gone  forever. 

To  prevent  bribery  in  such  cases,  an  ounce  of  referendum 
is  worth  a  dozen  State  prisons.  If  no  franchise  may  be 
given  without  the  special  consent  of  the  people,  it  wonder- 
fully reduces  the  vogue  and  scope  of  financial  corruption. 
For  the  briber  is  a  frugal  and  a  timorous  man,  who  will  not 
trust  his  argosies  to  unknown  waves,  and  the  vote  of  an  al- 
derman, councilman,  assemblyman,  or  State  Senator  —  to 
go  no  higher  —  is  of  less  value,  when  what  he  has  to  sell  has 
"a  string  to  it,"  and  the  unbuyable  people  hold  the  string. 

In  their  use  of  the  referendum,  the  American  people  will 
be  far  more  fortunate  if  they  remember  some  of  its  defects  and^ 
limitations.  Its  tendency  (at  least  when  separated  from  the\ 
initiative)  is  somewhat  conservative.1  Its  result  depends 
upon  the  manner  in  which  the  legislative  questions  are  pro- 
pounded. It  is  likely  to  weary  the  electors  if  too  freely 
used.  It  is  likely  to  be  used  by  weak-kneed  legislators  to 
throw  the  burden  of  an  awkward  decision  back  upon  the 
electors.  Finally,  it  cannot  accomplish  the  impossible.  It 
cannot  do  alone  what  can  only  be  accomplished  by  a  com- 

1  Under  the  Swiss  federal  referendum  about  two  thirds  of  all  laws 
submitted  are  rejected.  The  Swiss,  both  in  federal  and  cantonal  votings, 
tend  to  reject  novel  proposals,  although  a  measure  rejected  once  or  twice 
or  oftener  may  ultimately  be  accepted.  The  majority  against  a  law  may 
be  merely  a  bundle  of  minorities,  one  group  voting  against  one  clause,  an- 
other group  against  a  second  clause,  and  a  third  group  against  a  third 
clause. 


310  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

bination  of  reforms.  It  cannot  remake  the  people.  If  the 
people  are  a  sleeping  princess,  waiting  for  the  fairy  prince 
of  political  saviors  to  awaken  it,  then  the  referendum  will 
not  avail  any  more  than  any  other  device  of  government.  If 
the  people  do  not  want,  they  will  not  get.  A  referendum 
is  no  more  valuable  than  a  vote  of  an  assembly,  if  the  people 
do  not  vote  at  the  referendum. 

Within  the  limits  set  by  these  conditions,  however,  the 
referendum,  united  with  the  initiative,  has  vast  possibilities 
in  our  present  state  of  politics.  Not  only  may  it  check  much 
of  our  residual  corruption,  not  only  may  it  directly  give  to  the 
people  a  larger  measure  of  political  control  than  they  now 
possess,  but  it  may  have  the  even  greater  merit  of  being  a  vast 
school  of  democratic  education.  If  our  referendum  votes 
can  be  made  educational  campaigns,  free  from  personalities, 
the  result  may  be  a  large  and  direct  contribution  to  political 
orality  and  education. 

When  we  analyze  these  changes  —  direct  nominations, 

4e  recall,  the  initiative,  the  referendum  —  we  find  that 
eir  common  characteristic  is  the  directness  of  their  appeal 
to  the  rule  of  the  majority.  This  directness  is  part  of  a  demo- 
cratic tendency  to  make  all  political  processes  simpler.  Our 
legal  and  political,  like  our  industrial,  problems  are  becoming 
daily  more  intricate.  Despite  our  more  diffused  education, 
therefore,  it  becomes  increasingly  necessary  that  our  discon- 
certing difficulties  should  not  be  increased  by  obscurities, 
stumbling  blocks,  and  handicaps  in  our  political  machinery. 
Our  governmental  system  must  be  as  understandable  as  is 
compatible  with  efficiency  and  with  a  just  representation  of 
all  classes.  We  must  have  a  glass-house  government;  a 
government  standardized  and  systematized ;  a  government 
with  double-entry  bookkeeping ;  with  conspicuous  heads ; 
with  the  line  of  responsibility  leading  straight  and  clear  from 
the  obscurest  subofficial  to  the  responsible  chief.  Obscurity 
works  in  the  interest  of  special  classes ;  clarity  in  the  interest 


>*%m 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      311 

of  the  people.  If  the  people  are  to  rule,  they  must  not  be 
made  to  waste  their  vision,  enthusiasm,  or  indignation  in 
vain  attempts  to  determine  who  is  to  blame  or  what  it  is  all 
about. 

This  simplicity  of  political  arrangements  is  necessary  to 
governmental  efficiency,  without  which  no  great  extension  of 
governmental  functions  is  possible.  If  an  oligarchic  but 
efficient  industry  is  opposed  by  a  lax  and  inefficient  govern- 
ment, the  former  will  easily  escape  effective  regulation.  If 
factory  inspectors,  tax  receivers,  and  " plain-clothes  men" 
accept  bribes;  if  civil  servants  buy  their  places  with  contribu- 
tions to  political  parties;  if  the  government,  losing  money  on 
all  its  ventures,  spends  two  dollars  where  only  one  dollar  was 
spent  before,  the  industrial  oligarchy  will  be  safe,  because  the 
people  will  prefer  present  evils  to  those  which  a  corrupt  and 
inefficient  government  might  introduce  into  business. 

Years  ago  our  public  administration  was  so  dishonest  and 
so  incomparably  inefficient  that  private  business  did  not 
anticipate  any  great  popularity  for  the  governmental  regu- 
lation of  industry.1  To-day  things  are  different.  Thanks 
/  largely  to  the  incentive  of  business  men,  government  is 
becoming  quite  reasonably  efficient. 

When  the  plutocracy  began  to  organize  the  country's 
business,  it  found  that  it  was  also  necessary  to  improve 
certain  phases  of  government.  To  compete  with  British  and 
German  manufacturers,  we  needed  a  better  consular  service. 
For  the  sake  of  business,  we  needed  better  fire  and  police 
protection,  better  sanitation,  better  administration  of  the 
wharves,  a  better  service  generally.  Efficiency,  however, 
is  a  contagious  virtue,  and  inefficiency,  which  lives  com- 
fortably by  itself  in  pleasant  dark  places,  cannot  co-exist 
with  efficiency.  One  branch  after  another  of  the  civil 
service  of  nation,    State,   and   city   improved.    Red  tape, 

1  Thirty  years  ago  we  did  not  know  how  corrupt  private  business  was, 
nor  from  what  respectable  sources  official  corruption  came. 


312  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

goose  quills,  and  a  bewigged  and  pompous  ceremonial  gave 
way  to  counting  machines,  public  automobiles,  and  an  easy 
and  rapid  dispatch  of  public  business.  Intolerable  condi- 
tions became  in  some  governmental  places  tolerable;  in 
some  places,  fairly  good ;  in  some,  excellent. 

To-day  the  administrative  efficiency  of  our  federal  govern- 
ment is  as  much  superior  to  what  it  was  a  generation  ago,  as 
is  the  efficiency  of  the  locomotive  of  1911  to  that  of  the  loco- 
motive of  1876.  The  superlatively  efficient  Standard  Oil 
Company  probably  does  not  conduct  its  business  with 
truer  economy  and  efficiency  than  have  been  manifested 
by  the  federal  government  in  the  construction  of  the 
Panama  Canal.  We  are  carrying  out  our  great  irrigation 
works,  and  conducting  (in  connection  with  them)  a  manifold 
series  of  auxiliary  businesses  with  a  reasonable  degree  of 
success.  Our  post  office  service,  though  somewhat  hobbled 
by  holdovers  (both  men  and  methods),  compares  neverthe- 
less in  net  efficiency  with  the  great  express  companies.1 
Our  national  forests  are  admirably  run;  our  federal  De- 
partment of  Agriculture  (which  is  a  great  nonprofit-earning 
business)  is  conducted  as  well  as  the  average  University,  or 
private  philanthropic  institution.  The  same  is  true  of  many 
branches  of  our  State  and  local  governments. 

The  improvement  in  our  civil  service  alone  marks  a  great 
step  forward.  A  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  one  of  the  most 
convincing  arguments  against  a  proposed  government 
operation  of  railroads  was  that  the  admission  of  half  a 
million  railroad  employees  would  still  further  demoralize  our 
corrupt  civil  service.     In  1911,  with  almost  two  million 

1  Comparisons  between  the  rival  efficiency  of  government,  and  private 
businesses  cannot  be  made  solely  on  the  basis  of  profits.  The  government 
willingly  pays  higher  wages  than  it  is  compelled  to  pay.  It  willingly  gives 
a  better  service  than  it  is  compelled  to  give.  It  gladly  conducts  a  large 
part  of  its  business  at  a  fiscal  loss,  but  at  a  social  gain.  On  the  whole,  the 
people  of  the  United  States  can  better  pay  high  wages  to  government 
employees  than  allow  exorbitant  profits  to  promoters  of  express  companies. 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      313 

steam  railroad  employees,  this  particular  difficulty  seems 
less  formidable.  There  are  everywhere  signs  of  an  increasing 
recognition  by  our  more  democratic  governments  that  to 
fulfill  their  functions  they  must  be  efficient.  The  last 
twenty  years  have  witnessed  an  enormous  advance  in  the 
sheer  efficiency  of  our  local  governments.  Bureaus  of 
Municipal  Research  point  out  improvements  in  municipal 
administration;  annual  congresses  of  municipal  officials, 
enable  comparative  studies  to  be  made  of  municipal 
methods.1  In  many  localities  we  have  efficient  govern- 
ment of  cities  by  small  commissions,  democratically  elected, 
invested  with  great  power  and  with  clear  responsibility, 
and  subject  to  immediate  recall  by  an  adverse  ma- 
jority. 

All  this  efficiency  is  important,  but  a  still  greater  efficiency 
on  a  far  higher  plane  is  necessary  if  we  are  to  democratize 
our  industrial  and  political  life.  Our  political  machinery  — 
national,  State,  and  local;  legislative,  executive,  administra- 
tive, and  judicial;  constitutional  and  extraconstitutional  — 
our  whole  political  machinery  in  all  its  parts  must  be  adapted 
to  all  the  changing  purposes  of  government.  It  is  of  small 
advantage  that  our  legislators  are  democratically  nominated, 
elected,  and  controlled ;  it  is  of  small  advantage  that  each 
separate  government  wheel  turns  with  a  noiseless  ease,  if 
the  system  as  a  whole  is  ill-geared.  If  in  a  government 
there  is  a  lack  of  proper  coordination  among  parts;  if 
certain  parts  are  weak  which  should  be  strong,  and  certain 

1  It  is  important  that  efficiency  be  not  identified  with  lessened  govern- 
mental expenditures,  with  a  cheeseparing  and  a  special  care  for  the  preser- 
vation of  the  governmental  lead  pencils  and  the  soap  and  towels  in  the 
public  offices.  In  these  days  of  rapidly  expanding  governmental  functions 
the  bark  of  "the  watchdog  of  the  treasury"  is  not  the  epitome  of  political 
wisdom.  The  true  policy  is  fairly  well  stated  in  the  (1910)  Platform  of 
the  New  York  State  Independence  League  :  "While  emphasizing  the  im- 
portance of  a  business-like  and  economical  administration,  we  believe  that 
the  State  should  unhesitatingly  expend  whatever  is  necessary  for  the  com- 
plete performance  of  its  functions." 


314  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

parts  are  strong  which  might  be  weak;  if  between  State 
and  nation  there  are  jurisdictional  disputes;  and  if  there 
are  jurisdictional  disputes  between  legislative  and  judiciary; 
if  there  is  fluctuation  where  there  should  be  stability,  and  a 
stiff  unchangeability  where  there  should  be  elasticity  and 
change,  —  if  there  are  these  or  any  of  these,  then  no  true 
efficiency  can  be  maintained. 

Of  all  these  elements  of  national  inefficiency  the  delimita- 
tion of  powers  between  the  federal  and  the  State  govern- 
ments is  the  most  patent.     Democratic  reforms  are  often  far 

>re  difficult  to  effect  than  in  England  or  in  France  because 
in  the  United  States  there  may  be  a  conflict  of  author- 
ity between  State  and  federal  jurisdictions.  Labor  laws 
which  in  England  or  France  would  be  passed  by  the  national 
legislature  and  become  law  for  the  whole  country  must  here 
be  enacted,  not  by  the  federal  government,  but  by  each 
State  for  its  own  residents,  and  a  law  passed  in  any  such 
State  may  be  declared  unconstitutional  because,,  in  violation 
of  the  federal  Constitution. 

/  We  are  increasingly  perceiving  that  many  of  our  problems 
are  national  problems  and  cannot  be  solved  by  any  govern- 
mental unity  less  than  the  nation.  Regulation  of  interstate 
railroads  has  long  since  passed  beyond  effective  State  action, 
and  the  regulation  of  our  great  industrial  corporations  is 
similarly  beyond  the  scope  of  State  action.  In  the  matter 
of  the  conservation  of  our  natural  resources,  in  the  matter 
of  the  taxation  of  incomes  and  of  inheritances,  even  in  the 
problem  of  education  and  of  certain  forms  of  labor  and  fac- 
tory legislation,  we  should  be  far  better  off  for  an  extension 
of  our  federal  powers. 

By  this  it  is  not  meant  that  we  should  surrender  our 
federal  system  of  "an  indissoluble  union  of  indestructible 
States,"  or  that  we  should  reduce  those  States  to  the  status 
of  counties  or  departements.  There  are  many  advantages 
to  our  present  system.     It  permits  the  more  progressive 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      315 

States  to  go  forward  without  waiting  for  the  consent  of  the 
less  advanced  States.1  It  permits  us  to  maintain  political 
experiment  stations,  where  new  ideas  may  be  tried  out 
quickly  and  on  a  small  scale.  It  enables  us  to  make  our 
mistakes  cheaply.  But  it  is  also  used  to  halt  progress 
and  to  maintain  reactionary  districts  from  the  impact 
of  democratic  forces.  It  is  used  as  an  obstacle  to  progress, 
when  men  who  want  no  conservation  plead  for  State  as 
against  national  conservation.  It  is  used  to  prevent  national 
action  and  to  thwart  State  action,  and  to  delay  each  in  the 
supposed  interest  of  the  other. 

To  an  extent,  our  government  already  answers  to  the  needs 
of  the  people,  but  it  does  so  ineffectually,  like  a  clumsy, 
ancient  engine  which  utilizes  only  one  or  two  per  cent  of  the 
power  applied  to  it.  More  or  less  we  can  obviate  the  evils  of 
our  present  imperfect  federal  system  by  creating  new  extra- 
legal agencies,  such  as  the  house  of  governors,  or  other 
means  of  creating  a  unanimous  action  by  a  large  num- 
ber of  States.  Progress  towards  a  really  effective  and 
specialized  democratic  government  can  be  made  in  other 
ways.  We  can  establish  a  larger  measure  of  municipal 
home  rule;  we  can  reform  our  legislative  methods  in  the 
House  of  Representatives 2  and  elsewhere ;  we  can  more 
completely  separate  local  from  national  politics,  and  we  can 
increase  our  independent  voting  both  in  municipal  and  in 

1  Under  a  system  of  uniform,  contemporaneous  legislation  by  a  group  of 
progressive  States,  a  more  rapid  advance  can  probably  be  made  than  could 
be  made  by  waiting  for  the  larger  political  body  —  the  nation  —  to  move. 

2  The  attempt  to  reform  the  rules  of  the  House  of  Representatives  led, 
in  1910,  to  a  severe  conflict  between  house  insurgents  and  house  "stand- 
patters." It  is  interesting  to  reflect  that  the  rules  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives, which  can  be  changed  at  any  moment  by  a  vote  of  a  majority 
of  the  House  (without  the  concurrence  of  Senate  or  of  President)  have 
probably  done  more  within  later  decades  to  obstruct  democratic  progress 
than  has  the  unequal  distribution  among  the  States  of  senators,  although 
the  latter  cannot  (theoretically)  b^  shanged  against  the  will  of  any  State 
even  by  the  process  of  constitutional  amendment. 


i 


316  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

- 

national  elections.     Finally,  within  the  States  we  can  secure 
proportional  representation.1 

Much  of  our  progress  towards  a  complete  majority  govern- 
ment might  be  made  without  any  change  in  the  federal 
Constitution.  Sooner  or  later,  however,  the  growing  political 
democracy  will  be  aborted  and  halted  by  the  inelasticity 
of  that  document,  and  in  the  time  to  come  a  demand  will  / 
be  made  for  fundamental  constitutional  transformations 
and  adjustments.  j 

Upon  the  manner  in  which  this  demand  is  made  and  met 
will  depend  much  of  the  future  political  history  of  the  United 
\  States.  If  the  Constitution  will  permit  itself  to  be  changed 
I  to  meet  the  changing  needs  of  the  nation,  it  will  grow  in 
dignity  and  prestige.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  it  does  not 
change,  or  if  it  changes  too  slowly  to  permit  political  trans- 
formations to  be  made  with  a  minimum  of  friction,  then  it 
will  be  broken,  violently  distorted,  or  swept  aside. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  on  the  part  of  those  who  wish  the 
Constitution  to  remain  forever  as  it  is  to  count  too  much 
upon  its  popularity  as  an  obstacle  to  change.  That  the 
document  is  stupendously  popular  is  evident.  But  the 
Constitution  will  remain  popular  only  so  long  as  it  permits 
the  progressive  attainment  by  the  people  of  the  things  which 
they  desire.  The  veneration  in  which  the  Constitution  has 
so  long  been  held,  has  largely  been  due  to  our  prosperity 

1  So  completely  are  we  wedded  to  the  idea  of  a  political  representation 
of  geographical  districts  instead  of  a  representation  of  classes,  and  of  like- 
minded  groups  of  men  generally,  that  we  do  not,  as  a  rule,  even  consider 
the  advisability  of  adopting  proportional  representation.  Under  that  sys- 
tem, if  there  are  one  hundred  legislators  to  be  elected  by  one  million  voters, 
then  any  ten  thousand  voters,  no  matter  where  situate,  would  be  qualified 
to  elect  their  candidate.  The  advantage  of  proportional  representation 
is  that  it  gives  representation,  not  only  to  the  minority,  but  also,  and  even 
more  effectually,  to  the  majority.  It  puts  a  stop  to  gerrymandering,  and 
by  making  legislators  more  truly  representative  of  like-minded  constituents, 
it  allows  men  of  conviction  to  take  the  places  of  our  present  eclectic  and 
shrinking  representatives. 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      317 

during  the  constitutional  period,  just  as  the  late  Queen 
Victoria  owed  much  of  her  popularity  to  a  similar  cause. 
Like  the  Republican  Party  the  Constitution  has  profited 
by  good  crops  and  a  boundless  continent.  If,  however, 
it  comes  to  be  believed  that  whatever  the  plutocracy  wants 
is  constitutional  and  whatever  we  want  is  unconstitutional, 
—  there  will  follow  an  astounding  deliquescence  of  the 
wisdom  of  our  ancestors. 

For  the  time  being,  the  Constitution  will  probably  change, 
as  it  has  changed  during  the  last  century,  by  process  of 
interpretation.  Nine  men,  seated  in  the  Supreme  Court 
at  Washington,  hearing  more  or  less  distinctly  the  clamor  of 
a  hundred  million  people  outside,  judging  more  or  less  wisely 
of  the  constitutional  needs  of  these  hundred  millions  of 
people,  will  continue  under  the  fiction  of  interpretation  to 
adapt  our  century-old  Constitution  to  our  present  needs. 
Upon  these  nine  politically  irresponsible  men  will  rest  a 
tremendous  moral  reponsibility.  It  is  possible  for  them 
by  a  few  progressive  judicial  decisions  to  democratize  the 
Constitution.  It  is  equally  possible  to  evoke  a  dangerous 
constitutional  conflict  by  a  few  reactionary  decisions. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  as  the  years  roll  on  the  nine  Supreme 
Court  judges,  making  and  remaking  a  Constitution  for  a 
hundred  million  people,  will  more  and  more  feel  the  impact, 
the  psychological  attraction,  of  all  these  millions.  It  is  to\ 
be  hoped  that  the  stamp  of  the  popular  will  may  be  stamped 
on  these  nine  minds  as  it  is  stamped  upon  the  minds  of, 
our  presidential  electors,  upon  our  western  legislators  as- 
sembled to  elect  a  United  States  senator,  and  to  a  less  degree 
upon  the  minds  of  our  Congressmen  and  of  the  President  of 
the  United  States.  We  can  reach  to  the  Supreme  Court 
only  through  a  series  of  channels.  But  already  it  is  evident 
that  Presidents  are  becoming  increasingly  anxious  to  appoint 
justices  who  will  meet  with  the  approval  of  the  nation, 
and  that  the  senators,  who  confirm  the  appointments  are 


/ 


I 


318  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY  . 

not   entirely   unsusceptible   to   similar   influences.     Direct  \ 
election  of  senators  should  mean  more  democratic  senators  ; 
more   democratic   senators  should  mean  more  democratic 
Supreme  Court  justices ;   more  democratic  justices  should  / 
mean  a  more  democratic  Constitution. 
1  »         All  this  is  progress,  but  it  is  the  progress  of  the  child, 
-4-  not  of  the  adult  nation.     The  Constitution  should  be  re- 
vised by  the  people,    A  radical  revision  of  the  Constitution 
by  a  special  constitutional  convention,  such  as  was  contem- 
plated by  the  document  itself,  would  be  one  of  the  greatest 
single  steps  towards  establishing  a  political  democracy  in 

Lthe  United  States. 
An  alternative  step,  perhaps  even  wiser,  would  be,  not  a 
obmplete  transformation  of  the  document,  but  a  mere  change 
(In  the  method  of  amendment,)  a  change  which  would  make 
[future  amendment  easier  and  would  give  the  power  of 
'proposing  and  of  adopting  amendments  to  the  people,  rather 
/  than  to  legislatures,  State  and  federal. 

Herein  lies  the  scope  of  the  constitutional  initiative  and 
referendum,  which  transcends  the  scope  of  the  legislative 
initiative  and  referendum  as  the  Constitution  transcends  a 
law.  In  changing  our  federal  Constitution  we  should 
adopt  a  system  similar  to  that  adopted  by  the  far  more  demo- 
cratic federal  republic  of  Switzerland.  A  given  number  of 
qualified  voters,  let  us  say  one  or  two  millions,  should  be 
allowed  to  propose  any  constitutional  amendment,  which 
should  then  be  voted  upon  (on  a  single  day)  by  all  the 
qualified  voters  of  the  nation,  and  should  be  considered 
carried  and  should  be  made  a  part  of  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  if  accepted  by  a  majority  of  all  the  voters, 
as  well  as  by  a  majority  in  a  majority  of  all  the  States. 

Even  with  a  constitution  sensitive  to  the  popular  will, 
even  with  the  referendum,  initiative,  and  all  the  instruments 
and  weapons  of  a  pure  political  democracy,  it  would  not 
follow  that  legislation  would  be  in  the  interest  of  the  people. 


THE  POLITICAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY      319 

The  referendum  enables  the  people  to  decide.     It  does  not 
make  them  decide  wisely. 

Under  a  political  democracy  the  people  may  vote  in  their 
own  despite.     They  may  be  jingoistic,  imperialistic,  reaction- 
ary.    They  may  vote  themselves  a  king,  with  or  without  a 
title.     They  may  break  into  warring  factions,  and,  in  the 
absense  of  unity,  allow  real  sovereignty*  to  slip  through 
their  fingers.      A  nation  in  breechcloths,  but  without  a 
king,  is  not  a  democracy.      Neither  is  a  nation  with  a 
twentieth   century  political   democracy,   but   without  the 
mind  and  the  will  to  rule  itself. 
/  The  end  goal  of  the  democracy  is  thus  a  social  goal.     It 
f  is  the  improvement,  physical,  intellectual,  and  moral,  of 
y  the  millions  who  make  up  the  democracy.     It  is  such  an 
\    advancement  and  increase  of  the  progressive  masses  that 
the  gains  made  on  the  political  and  industrial  fields  may  be 
increased,  retained,  and  wisely  utilized. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   SOCIAL   PROGRAM   OF  THE   DEMOCRACY 

fTlHE  social  goal  of  the  democracy  is  the  advancement  and 
I     improvement  of  the  people  through  a  democratization 
of  the  advantages  and  opportunities  of  life.     This  goal  is 
to  be  attained  through  a  conservation  ofTife  and  health, 

Va  democratization  of  education,  a  socialization  of  con- 
sumption, a  raising  of  the  lowest  elements  of  the  population 
to  the  level  of  the  mass. 

The  most  elemental  phase  of  this  social  policy  is  conserva-\ 
tion.  The  phrase  "the  conservation  of  human  resources '/( 
has  attained  a  considerable  popularity  because  of  the  vogue  of 
the  analogous  policy  of  the  conservation  of  natural  resources. 
But  the  word  "conservation"  is  too  narrow,  for  the  demo- 
cratic ideal  is  not  only  to  maintain,  but  vastly  to -increase 
and  improve,  the  life,  health,  intellect,  character,  and  social 
qualities  of  the  citizenry. 

This  policy  does  not  consider  life  solely  from  a  quan- 
titative standpoint.  The  demand  for  large  populations 
is  not  democratic  in  origin.  It  is  the  despot  who  wants 
soldiers;  the  business  prince  who  wants  cheap  labor;  the 
jingo  who  believes  in  a  swaggering,  fighting  nation.  In 
democratic  countries,  on  the  other  hand,  a  decrease  in  the 
birth  rate  has  accompanied  an  improved  education,  a  more 
diffused  comfort,  and  a  rise  in  the  general  standard  of  living. 
The  more  advanced  the  country,  the  section,  or  the  social 
class,  the  more  marked  in  general  has  been  the  tendency 
away  from  the  old  blind  propagation  of  the  species,  ff he 
democracy  does  not  desire  that  life  be  given  to  so  many  that 
the  gift  becomes  of  no  value.j   It  does  not  wish  to  see  a 

320 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        321 

swarming  population  pressing  upon  the  means  of  subsistence. 
It  desires  a  full  life  for  all  who  are  born,  but  it  does  not 
measure  national  success  by  the  numbers  who  are  born. 

This  distinction  between  the  number  and  the  value  of 
lives  explains  one  of  the  most  curious  anomalies  of  modern 
democratic  policy.  Although  the  democracy  is  beginning 
to  desire  rather  a  lessened  than  an  increased  birth  rate,  it 
demands  absolutely  that  every  child  born  shall  have  a  chance 
to  live.  The  basis  of  democratic  strivings  toward  human 
conservation  is  an  ethical  belief  in  the  sanctity  of  human  life, 
and  the  desire  for  an  equality  in  this  universal  possession, 
ttife  is  the  one  thing  which  all  have  in  common ;  and  while 
the  expectation  of  life  is  by  no  means  equal  as  between 
social  classes,  it  is  far  more  equal  than  is  property,  education, 
political  power,  or  economic  opportunitiesT? 

How  far  we  still  are  from  any  real  equality  even  in  the 
probable  years  of  our  lives  is  seen  in  our  statistics  of  accidents 
and  of  preventable  diseases,  which  reveal  our  social  reckless- 
ness toward  our  very  poor.  It  is  the  poor  who  die  young. 
It  is  the  poor  who  die  of  preventable  diseases,  or  are  killed 
by  accidents  and  by  dangerous  occupations  and  poisonous 
foods.  When  society  fails  in  its  duties,  the  poor  die.  And 
the  more  the  poor  die,  the  more  poor  there  remain. 
/To  save  life  involves  a  social  intelligence  and  a  social 
Conscience.  Our  ideas  of  protecting  life  are  as  yet  rudi- 
mentary. We  do  not  permit  a  man  to  put  arsenic  in  his 
neighbor's  coffee  nor  a  stiletto  in  his  neighbor's  side,  but  we 
have  only  begun  to  prevent  the  selling  of  " embalmed  beef" 
and  other  deadly  foods,  and  we  still  permit  the  killing  of 
workmen  and  workwomen  by  means  of  lead,  phosphorus,  and 
unf ended  machinery.  We  do  not  allow  a  man  to  contract  to 
commit  suicide,  but  we  not  only  permit,  we  actually  pre- 
suppose, a  contract  by  which  the  workman  in  a  dangerous 
occupation  assumes  the  " ordinary  risks"  of  the  trade.  As 
for  the  tens  of  thousands  of  infants  who  annually  die  of 


322  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

bad  milk  and  bad  houses,  we  do  not  even  know  that  they  die 

(needlessly. 
A  large  part  of  our  unprevented  mortality  is  due  to  our 
fearful  national  heedlessness.  Just  as  for  years  we  have 
sacrificed  thousands  of  lives  to  our  Fourth  of  July  barbarities, 
so  we  have  annually  sacrificed  other  thousands  to  our  desire 
to  cross  railway  tracks,  and  to  our  general  willingness  "to 
take  a  chance."  But  behind  this  recklessness,  individual^ 
and  social,  there  remains  the  desire  of  individuals  to  profit 
at  the  expense  of  the  people,  whether  the  price  is  paid  in  J 
life,  or  in  health,  comfort,  and  money.  The  railroad  runs  its/ 
locomotives  through  the  heart  of  a  metropolis,  and  only 
accepts  automatic  couplers  after  years  of  obstruction.  The 
manufacturer  insists  upon  leaving  his  machinery  unguarded ; 
the  great  mining  company  upholds  its  right  to  neglect  the 
most  elementary  and  least  costly  of  safety  devices.  In  our 
mines,  railroads,  and  factories  we  kill  two,  three,  and  five 
times  as  many  workmen  per  thousand  as  do  other  nations ; 
and  in  many  industries  and  in  many  States  we  do  not  even 
trouble  to  count  the  slain.  We  are  still  unwilling  to  pay  for 
the  complete  sanitation  of  a  city,  for  the  uprooting  of  tuber- 
/  culosis,  for  the  distribution  of  proper  milk  to  infants,  or  for  a 
st  civilized  housing  policy  which  would  lessen  the  disgraceful 
;    ^mortality  of  certain  districts  of  our  large  cities. 

Everywhere  we  are  halted  in  our  progress  towards  the 
conservation  of  the  fives  and  health  of  all  the  people  by 

\the  obstruction  of  interested  persons  and  by  considerations 
of  cost.  We  save  pennies  to  individuals  and  cause  society  to 
lose  pounds  by  our  petty  savings  of  money  at  the  expense  of 
life  and  health.  On  a  mere  calculation  of  dollars  and  cents, 
it  is  a  foolish  extravagance  to  allow  a  baby  to  die  for  lack 
of  a  few  dollars'  worth  of  pure  milk,  or  to  allow  an  expensively 
bred  workman  to  die  for  lack  of  a  few  hundred  dollars  spent 
in  protection  and  prevention.1  But  we  do  not  yet  realize 
1  Every  preventable  death  is  a  reflection  upon  the  good  will  or  the  in- 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        323 

that  it  is  we  as  a  community  who  pay  for  these  deaths,  al- 
though we  only  too  clearly  realize  that  it  is  we  who  pay  for 
their  prevention. 

/In  contrast  with  our  old  attitude  of  tolerance  for  social 
assassination,  however,  we  are  now  beginning  an  energetic 
campaign  of  human  conservation.  We  are  instituting  ex- 
cellent and,  in  many  places,  free  hospital  and  dispensary 
service.  We  are  making  nurse  and  doctor  public  servants, 
and  are  introducing  them  into  the  public  schools.  We  are 
fighting  typhoid  fever  with  uncontaminated  water  supplies, 
and  tuberculosis  not  only  by  a  direct  attack  but  with  im- 
proved housing  and  factory  conditions.  We  are  improving 
city  and  State  Boards  of  Health  and  are  striving  for  a 
National  Board  of  Health,  which  shall  supervise  the  general 
health  conditions  of  the  nation.  In  our  cities  we  are  pro- 
viding public  parks,  public  recreation  centers,  public  baths. 
Our  city  and  State  authorities  are  doubling  the  protection 
of  the  milk,  meat,  and  other  foods  of  the  people.  Our  fac- 
tory legislation  and  our  laws  regulating  dangerous  occupa- 
tions have  resulted  in  a  considerable  saving  of  life,  while 
our  laws  against  child  labor  have  had  an  enormously  bene- 
ficial effect.  All  of  which  changes,  together  with  a  rapid 
advance  in  sanitary  science  and  a  vast  improvement  in  the 
standards  of  living  of  the  people,  have  resulted  in  a  rapid  de- 
cline in  the  death  rate,  especially  in  the  cities. 

After  all  this  progress,  however,  we  are  still  only  in  the 
beginning  of  our  democratic  campaign  of  life-saving.  To 
conserve  life  and  health,  society  must  enormously  increase 
its  efforts  along  present  lines  and  must  open  up  new  routes 
of  progress.  We  must  organize  the  campaign  on  State  (and 
national)  lines.     Sooner  or  later  we  must  insure  our  popu- 

telligence  of  the  community  which  suffers  it.  Society  should  regard  every 
death  below  the  age  of  sixty  as  a  subject  of  serious  thought.  There  should 
be  a  coroner's  inquest  when  a  man  dies  of  typhoid  fever  or  lead  poisoning. 
Dying  young  should  be  forbidden  by  law. 


324  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

lations  against  sickness,  accident,  and  invalidity,  and  must 
devote  enormous  sums  to  the  prevention  of  these  calamities. 
The  advantage  of  an  obligatory,  universal  state  insurance 
is  not  only  that  it  changes  one's  unknown  individual  lia- 
bility for  a  known  social  liability,  but  also  that  it  compels 
society  to  recognize  that  it  itself  is  the  loser  from  each  pre- 
ventable death  and  each  preventable  sickness.  When  the 
State  of  New  York  makes  itself  financially  responsible  for 
the  health  and  lives  of  ten  or  twenty  millions  of  citizens,  it 
will  be  willing  to  spend  money  to  prevent  sickness  and 
death. 

To  secure  the  health  and  lives  of  the  people  we  must 
socialize  the  business  of  health-keeping.  It  would  pay  us 
in  the  higher  efficiency  and  better  tone  of  the  community 
to  spend  annually  hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars  of  public 
money  upon  the  prevention  and  cure  of  disease.  Once  we 
regard  the  health  of  the  population  as  a  social  instead  of 
merely  as  an  individual  asset,  when  we  come  to  consider 
the  maintenance  of  the  citizen's  health  as  a  social  duty 
rather  than  as  a  personal  prerogative,  we  shall  have 
enormously  advanced  towards  a  healthy  and  prosperous 
community.1 

The  lessening  of  the  infantile  death  rate  (combined  with 
a  lessening  of  the  birth  rate)  is  a  sign  that  we  are  already 
making  progress  in  the  conservation  of  life.  The  birth  of 
babies  who  die  in  infancy  is  a  pitiable  social  waste.  If  a 
high  death  rate  of  babies  meant  a  selection  of  the  socially 
fittest,  if  it  were  a  subtle  eugenic  plan  of  nature,  it  might 
be  worth  all  it  costs  in  misery.  In  present  circumstances, 
however,  the  death  of  babies  is  as  arbitrary  as  decimation. 

1  Our  poverty,  while  a  cause  of  illness,  is  largely  a  consequence  of  illness 
and  of  early  (preventable)  death.  Much  of  the  misery  of  the  great  cities 
affects  the  widows  and  orphaned  children  of  men  who  died  young,  the 
wives  and  children  of  sick  men,  and  people  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  who 
have  become  permanently  debilitated  as  a  result  of  illnesses  which  need 
never  have  been  contracted. 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        325 

The  economic  position  of  the  baby,  not  its  inherited  qualities, 
constitutes  its  chief  danger  or  immunity. 

Like  the  newborn  infant,  so  the  growing  child  is  accorded 
an  ever  widening  protection.  Instruction  becomes  com- 
pulsory and  universal.  The  free  school,  through  the  kin- 
dergarten, reaches  out  towards  babyhood  and,  through  the 
high  school,  to  adolescence.  The  state,  as  guardian,  in- 
creases its  authority,  as  the  paternal  authority  weakens. 
Wide  programs  of  child  welfare  work  are  proposed  and  pro- 
I  gressively  executed.  The  greatest  revolution  of  the  last 
'half  century  is  the  revolution  in  the  status  of  the  child. 

Similarly,  in  the  interest  of  human  conservation  we  must 
rectify  or  totally  destroy  our  parasitic  trades.  There  are 
two  more  or  less  distinct  classes  of  parasitic  industries ;  those 
which  prey  upon  other  industries,  and  those  which  prey  upon 
human  life.  An  industry  is  parasitic  in  this  latter  sense  in 
proportion  as  it  directly  or  indirectly,  increases  sickness, 
produces  deterioration,  or  shortens  life. 

It  is  in  the  sweated  trades  that  the  labor  of  women  and 
children  (especially  of  immigrant  women  and  children)  is 
most  harshly  exploited.  In  the  making  of  artificial  flowers, 
in  the  sorting  of  rags,  in  the  fabrication  of  many  articles  of 
clothing,  the  work  is  carried  on  under  the  worst  possible  hy- 
gienic conditions  for  a  derisory  wage,  in  the  interest  of  a 
cheap  product. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  society  this  cheapness  is  dear- 
ness  and  sheer  wastefulness.  It  would  be  wiser  to  pay  a 
few  cents  a  gross  more  for  our  artificial  flowers.  It  would  be 
cheaper  to  pay  our  bounty  in  dollars  than  in  the  life  and 
health  of  the  workers. 

To  cure  the  evils  of  parasitic  trades  we  must  have  re- 

ourse  to  legislation.     We  cannot  trust  that  the  exploiters 

(themselves  for  the  most  part  exploited)  will  desist  from 

their  profits.     A  parasite   which  had  compunctions  about 

conveniencing  its  host  would  be  likely  to  succumb. 


326  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

What  is  necessary  is  a  wide  extension  both  in  the  appli- 
cation and  in  the  principles  of  our  factory  laws.  We  must 
extend  the  signification  of  the  word  " parasitic."  We  must 
come  to  regard  as  parasitic,  not  only  those  industries  which 
destroy  women  and  little  children,  but  also  those  which, 
though  paying  high  wages,  have  an  unnecessarily  high  mor- 
tality or  morbidity  rate,  and  also  those  which,  because  of 
long  hours,  excessive  strain,  or  for  other  causes,  do  not  permit 
a  reasonable  development  of  the  personality  of  the  workers. 
We  must  regulate  factory  conditions  for  men,  women,  and 
children,  and  we  must  so  change  our  legal  traditions  as  to 
permit  the  state  to  establish,  not  only  maximum  hours  of 

k labor  of  men,  but  also,  in  the  worst-paid  trades,  minimum 
wages. 
The  conservation  of  human  resources  is  a  step  towards 
the  equalization  of  the  chances  of  life  and  health  of  the 
citizens.     The  democratization  of  education  is  a  step  to- 
wards   the    equalization    of    the    chances    of    intellectual 
development. 
A  progressively  diffused  education  is  necessary  to  the 
>S.  maintenance  of  the  democracy.     A  political  democracy  may 
"be  reactionary  in  its  industrial  and  social  policies,  and  the 
people  may  secure  control  both  of  the  state  and  of  industry 
without  knowing  enough  to  turn  such  control  to  their  ad- 
vantage.    To  maintain  itself,  the  democracy  must  use  its 
powers  to  still  further  educate  and  strengthen  itself. 

There  was  a  time,  in  the  optimistic  days  preceding  the 
French  Revolution,  when  men  believed  that  no  long  training 
would  be  necessary  to  teach  men  to  rule.  The  people  would 
attain  their  full  intellectual  and  moral  stature  as  soon  as  po- 
litical tyranny  was  destroyed.  Democracy  was  in  its  youth. 
It  was  violent,  hopeful,  moody.  It  saw  visions.  It  had  a 
touching  faith  in  many  beatitudes.  It  believed  that  all 
men  were  by  nature  good ;  that  all  ills  were  due  to  civiliza- 
tion—to law,  government,  titles  of  nobility,  small  clothes, 


/I 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        327 

and  small  talk.  Civilization,  being  but  an  excrescence 
upon  nature,  might  be  excised.  The  bitter,  million-year-old 
world  would  become  young  and  sweet  again.  The  masses 
of  the  oppressed  would  become  wise  and  temperate  men 
ruling  themselves  by  the  light  of  reason. 

Unfortunately  the  hopes  of  the  eighteenth-century  philos- 
ophers were  not  entirely  realized.  Skulls  are  desperately 
obstinate  things,  and  unreasonable  convictions  have  a  woe- 
ful longevity.  Ignorance,  superstition,  reaction,  crushed  to 
earth,  rose  again  —  and  again.  The  peasants,  after  emanci- 
pation, did  not  become  philosophers. 
>  Our  more  sober  democracy  of  to-day  has  a  less  absolute 
naith  in  the  immediate  perfectibility  of  man.  It  realizes 
Vthat  men's  minds  change  slowly,  and  that  much  education 
and  much  time  are  required.  We  realize,  to-day,  that  just 
as  the  people  have  not  all  the  vices,  so  also  they  have  not  all 
the  virtues,  ascribed  to  them.  They  are  not  so  arbitrary, 
undisciplined,  ignorant  as  was  predicted.  Nor  are  they  so 
public-spirited.  The  average  man  does  not  cheerfully  give 
up  his  holiday  to  serve  on  a  jury,  and  the  average  housewife 
is  more  anxious  to  secure  a  good  servant  than  to  have  the 
Panama  Canal  finished.  The  people  are  often  too  patient 
or  too  passionate.     They  are  often  too  belligerent. 

The  most  diverse  classes  are  united  upon  the  policy  of 
educating  the  whole  people  because  upon  that  education 
depends  the  safety  of  the  various  groups  which  constitute 
the  nation.  The  very  possibility  of  misrule  by  a  passionateX 
accidental  majority  is  the  saving  menace  of  a  democracy/ 
It  is  this  menace  which  crumbles  our  intellectual  snobbery 
nd  abases  our  intellectual  pride.  For,  if  we  are  to  have 
universities,  and  the  universities  are  to  receive  public  funds, 
not  only  must  the  learned  come  from  their  cloisters  (as  to 
so  large  an  extent  they  have  already  done),  but  they  must 
appeal  to  a  population  sufficiently  intelligent  and  cultured 
to  appreciate  learning  and  culture.     In  a  democracy,  wherein 


328  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

a  real  political  power  (including  a  real  control  over  industry) 
extends  downwards  to  the  masses  of  the  people,  it  is  mani- 
festly impossible  to  give  a  monopoly  of  any  of  the  benefits 
of  life  to  any  one  class.  For  the  sake  of  the  cultured,  the 
.masses  must  have  the  opportunities  of  culture. 

ot  only  is  an  extension  of  education  indispensable  to 
the  maintenance  of  a  socialized  democracy,  but  it  is  precisely 
in  a  democracy  that  education  is  most  necessary  to  a  high 
national  efficiency.     Education  reacts  powerfully  upon  the 
roduction,  distribution,  and  consumption  of  wealth.     There 
is  no  private  industry  in  the  United  States  which  pays  as 
high  dividends  as  does  the  business  of  furnishing  the  proper 
education  to  the  proper  persons.     If  the  government  were 
annually  to  give  free  agricultural  and  industrial  instruction 
to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  youths  (and  were  actually  to 
pay  them  to  attend  school),  the  increase  in  the  productive- 
ness of  the  farms  and  factories  would  more  than  pay  for 
the  expenditure. 
/  f  We  have  already  taken  many  steps  towards  the  sociali- 
/  zation  of  education,  but  we  are  still  far  from  the  ideal  of  a 
/     society  in  which  all  forms  of  education  are  entirely  accessible 
x.   to  all  qualified  citizens.     We  should  have  free  education 
^from  kindergarten  to  university  for  all  children  and  youths 
who  are  willing  and  able  to  follow  the  courses,  and  we  should 
have  scholarships  and  scholar  pensions  for  all  capable 
scholars  who  have  not  the  means  to  abstain  from  gainful 
work.     All  this  would  of  course  cost  money,  especially  if 
we  not  only  increased  the  quantity,  but  raised  the  quality, 
of  our  education,  but  there  is  no  better  way  in  which  the 
increased  wealth  of  the  country  could  be  invested.1 

1  Many  pressing  educational  reforms,  such  as  the  increase  in  the  number 
of  teachers,  the  raising  of  the  standards  of  teachers,  improvements  in 
methods  and  equipment,  are  chiefly  held  back  by  considerations  of  cost. 
Whether  or  not  the  federal  government,  with  its  far  greater  resources, 
should  aid  in  the  extending  of'school  facilities  in  poor  districts  is  a  question 
which  deserves  far  more  consideration  than  it  has  received.     It  is  un- 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        329 

The  higher  education  of  the  multitude,  the  granting  to 
men  who  will  become  farmers,  carpenters,  typesetters, 
perhaps  even  hodcarriers,  of  what  would  be  an  equivalent 
of  a  high  school  (or  even  of  a  modern  college)  education, 
would  create  a  revolutionary  force  in  the  community  of 
astounding  power  and  magnitude.  It  would  be  a  force 
which  would  act  increasingly  until  our  society  had  become 
entirely  different  from  any  in  the  history  of  the  world. 
Not  only  would  such  an  absolute  democratization  *of  all 
^forms  of  education  enormously  hasten  economic  and  politi- 
i  cal  control  by  the  masses,  but  it  would  render  that  control 
permanent  and  beneficent. 

^  The  future  education  of  the  masses,  however,  should 
not  be  the  traditional,  Procrustean,  unrelated,  and  undiffer- 
entiated education  of  yesterday,  but  an  education  which 
fully  equips  the  child  for  his  industrial,  political,  and  social 
life.  For  too  long  the  school  has  been  half  asylum,  half 
penitentiary.  For  too  long  it  has  stood  alone  in  irrelevant 
isolation,  knowing  neither  factory  nor  farm,  neither  kitchen 
nor  voting  booth.  For  much  too  long  it  has  been  a  place 
where  ignorance  has  taught  ignorance,  where  individuality 
has  been  weeded  and  crushed  out. 

The  progress  already  made  towards  a  differentiate* 
modernized  education,  bearing  upon  all  essential  phases  oi 
humanity  and  nurturing  all  socially  valuable  individualities 
must  be  indefinitely  continued.  Our  future  education  must 
exalt  social  obligations  above  mere  competitive  egoisms. 
Our  new  education  must  expand  beyond  our  expanding 
schools.  It  must  flow  over  into  the  library,  the  newspaper, 
the  club,  the  factory.  It  must  be  an  education  which  will 
aid  society  in  the  conservation  of  the  life  and  the  health  of 
the  citizens  and  in  their  progressive  development.    It  must 

doubtedly  true  that  the  intellectual  progress  of.  the  nation  is  hampered 
by  the  arrested  educational  development  of  the  poorer  of  our  Southern 
States. 


330  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

aid  men  in  their  industrial  pursuits,  in  their  political  activi- 
ties, and  in  their  private  life  outside  of  industry  and  politics. 
It  must  guide  society  and  individuals  in  the  wise  consump- 
tion of  wealth. 

To  socialize  production  we  must  also  socialize  consump- 
tion. We  are  entering  into  an  age  where  men  will  suffer 
more  from  an  injudicious,  than  from  an  insufficient,  con- 
sumption of  wealth.  Food,  clothes,  books,  tools,  utensils, 
amusements,  are  already  pouring  in  on  us  at  an  unprece- 
dentedly  rapid  rate;  and  we  are  consuming  without  judgment, 
without  moderation,  without  regard  to  our  individual  in- 
terests or  to  the  interests  of  society.  Much  of  this  con- 
sumption is  absolutely  noxious.  To-day  more  Americans 
are  seriously  injured  by  an  unwise  consumption  of  wealth 
and  by  an  inept  use  of  leisure  than  by  overwork  or  by  evil 
conditions  of  work,  although  the  latter,  to  a  considerable 
extent,  induce  the  former.  i 

The  importance  of  socializing  consumption  becomes 
quite  evident  when  we  reflect  upon  the  enormous  revenu^ 
which  under  a  socialized  production  would  come  to  the  peoV 
pie.  A  billion  dollars  saved  from  banal  and  pleasure-de-\ 
stroying  consumption  is  a  billion  dollars — and  more — saved.  ^ 
We  do  not  often  realize  the  extent  of  this  waste.  What  has 
been  called  the  anarchy  of  production  is  order  superlative 
in  comparison  with  the  prevailing  anarchy  of  consumption. 
Competition  has  been  carried  over  from  the  making  of  goods 
to  the  using  of  them.  Much  of  our  expenditure  is  a  pure 
competition  of  display.  Fashion,  conspicuous  waste,  absurd 
extravagance,  even  among  the  poor,  destroy  an  astonishing 
proportion  of  the  national  product.  The  pleasure  of  Ameri- 
cans consists  largely  in  the  breaking  of  expensive  toys. 

Much   of   this   unwise   and    antisocial   consumption   of\ 
wealth  is  due  to  ultra-individualism.     In  consumption,  meir 
lack   the   discipline    and    coordination   which    they   have 
learned  in  production.     Moreover,  there  is  manifested  in 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        331 

consumption  a  certain  instinctive  conservatism,  which  lies 
deep  in  all  of  us.  The  man  who  follows  every  craze  and  fad, 
buying  when  the  crowd  buys  and  forgetting  when  the  crowd 
forgets,  is  a  timorously  conservative  consumer  of  wealth. 
There  are  women  who  are  heterodox  in  religion,  politics, 
and  cooking,  who  nevertheless  dare  not  wear  a  small  hat 
when  other  women  wear  their  hats  large. 
/  To  a  considerable  extent,  mere  economic  pressure  and 
/stimulus  may  be  relied  upon  to  break  this  conservatism  of 
(  consumption.  The  "flat"  displaces  the  house  when  rents 
\and  housemaid's  wages  rise,  and  apartment  hotels  become 
patronized  (and  liked)  by  people  who  a  few  years  earlier 
could  not  have  been  induced  to  enter  them.  The  number 
of  persons  sleeping  out  of  doors  increases  far  more  slowly 
than  does  the  knowledge  that  this  habit  is  beneficial;  but 
the  multitudes  who  use  safety  razors,  phonographs,  tele- 
phones, cameras,  and  other  advertised  wares  grow  with 
astounding  rapidity.  The  advertisements  in  magazines 
and  newspapers  are  thus  a  better  index  of  the  contempo- 
raneous civilization  than  are  the  articles  and  editorials. 
Unfortunately,  however,  business  cannot  always  be  relied 
upon  to  socialize  production.  It  acts  equally  in  the  opposite 
direction  by  producing  articles  which  are  deleterious  and 
absurd,  and  with  no  other  merit  than  that  of  being  a  link  in 
an  endless  chain  of  tasteless  ostentation. 
'To  socialize  our  consumption  we  must  therefore  depend 

Cupon  the  direct  or  indirect  action  of  the  state  and  upon  the 
gradual  education  of  the  consumers.  We  cannot  of  course 
invert  to  sumptuary  laws,  for  nothing  would  so  increase  the 
demand  for  ostrich  feathers  as  a  law  forbidding  their  use 
to  persons  "of  low  degree."  We  can,  however,  forbid  the 
unregulated  sale  of  such  articles  as  opium  and  cocaine,  and 
we  may  somewhat  reduce  the  consumption  of  alcohol !  and 

1  The  extreme  difficulty  of  the  problem  of  socializing  our  consumption 
is  illustrated  in  the  history  of  our  liquor  traffic.     For  too  long  we  have 


332  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

tobacco  by  levying  a  tax  upon  their  manufacture  or  sale. 
The  renting  (and  therefore  the  using)  of  insufficient  or  in- 
sanitary housing  accommodation  may  be  rigorously  forbid- 
den by  law,  and  a  definite  irreducible  minimum  of  quality 
may  be  established  for  all  foods  bought  by  the  people. 

The  state  can  also  socialize  consumption  by  furnishings 
a  larger  number  of  common  goods.  By  "common  goods" 
is  here  meant  those  commodities  and  services  which  are  fur- 
nished to  the  citizens  in  their  individual  capacity  freely, 
though  the  citizens  pay  for  them  in  their  collective  capacity,  j 
To  an  ever  increasing  extent  the  state  (national,  State,  and/ 
municipal)  is  spending  for  all  of  us.  It  is  far  better  that 
the  people  of  a  city, enjoy  a  large  park  than  that  a  hundred 
citizens  have  private  parks  and  a  hundred  thousand  have 
none.  Much  of  this  governmental  expenditure  (notably 
that  for  army,  navy,  etc.)  is  still  unwise  and  primitive,  but 
gradually  the  socially  useful  expenditure  increases.  Ex- 
penditure by  government  has  the  advantage  of  being  non- 
competitive as  between  individuals.  It  has  the  advantage 
of  buying  for  the  community  things  which  the  individuals 
cannot  buy  for  themselves.  It  is  better  regulated.  It  is 
on  the  whole  more  economical.  It  gives  a  greater  pleasure 
per  unit  of  cost,  because  it  is  so  largely  a  rendering  of  satis- 
factions wholesale  instead  of  retail. 

The  influence  of  education  upon  national  consumption 
is  potent  and  pervasive.  Through  education  we  may  some- 
followed  a  purely  instinctive  policy.  Prohibition  laws  are  passed  and  left 
unenforced,  so  that  "the  women  have  their  law  and  'the  boys'  have  their 
whiskey."  We  incarcerate  inebriates  for  a  day  or  two  and  discharge  them 
with  a  thirst,  or  we  send  them  from  court  with  a  three-dollar  fine  or  a  semi- 
humorous  reprimand.  We  have  only  begun  as  a  nation  to  learn  the  inter- 
actions between  alcoholism,  on  the  one  hand,  and  insanity,  feeble-minded- 
ness,  child  mortality,  tuberculosis,  and  other  diseases,  prostitution,  suicide, 
unemployment,  poverty,  and  national  inefficiency.  We  are  only  begin- 
ning to  trace  much  of  our  alcoholism  to  poverty  and  much  to  a  starved 
intellectual  life.  After  decades  of  striving,  we  are  still  at  the  beginnings 
of  a  solution. 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        333 

what  discourage  the  elephantiasis  of  consumption  to  which 
our  present  taste  runs.1  Through  education  we  may  throw 
the  emphasis  upon  those  economic  satisfactions  which  may- 
be had  jointly  as  opposed  to  other  satisfactions  which  are 
personal  and  exclusive.  In  educating  society  to  socialize 
its  consumption,  moreover,  we  shall  in  turn  socialize  our 
production,  some  of  the  worst  evils  of  which  result  from  our 
undisciplined  consumption. 

The  article  of  consumption  most  often  neglected  is 
leisure.  Leisure  is  an  indispensable  element  to  all  enjoy- 
ment. It  is  the  thing  in  which  the  American,  despite  his 
overflowing  wealth,  is  the  poorest. 

Americans  have  never  taken  time  and  still  do  not  take 
time  for  leisure.  We  seek  to  telescope  our  pleasures,  to 
enjoy  much  in  little  time.  As  a  nation  we  are  like  the  in- 
stantaneous American  traveler  who  does  the  Louvre  in  an 
hour  and  the  Vatican  in  half  a  morning.  We  are  obsessed 
by  the  doctrine  of  a  strenuous  life,  of  a  life  of  effort  and  labor, 
without  leisure  or  quiet  development. 

The  American  conception  of  leisure  has  always  been  one 
of  mild  disapprobation.  There  was  rather  a  feeling  that 
we  should  live  to  labor,  not  labor  to  live.  This  conception, 
which  was  more  or  less  explicable  during  the  days  of  the 
conquest  of  the  continent,  is  not  a  little  ludicrous  to-day 
when  advanced  by  the  financier  who  is  benefiting  by  our 
accumulating  surplus.  An  austere  disapprobation  of  holi- 
days is  also  given  expression  by  many  of  our  newspapers, 
and  when,  to  please  the  Italian  vote,  a  State  legislature 
made  Columbus  Day  a  holiday,  some  of  our  journals 
preached  eloquent  sermons  against  idle  workmen,  supine 
legislators,   and  reckless  Genoese  sailors.     In  the  eyes  of 

1  We  may  perhaps  also  expect  a  certain  approach  to  a  sanity  of  taste 
with  a  more  assured  income  enjoyed  for  some  time.  Our  present  society 
runs  to  excess  —  not  only  because  it  is  so  obstinately  competitive,  but 
because  we  are  still  nouveaux  riches. 


334  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

these  journals  and  of  many  well-meaning  manufacturers 
and  professional  men,  the  workman  should  prefer  to  work 
twelve  hours  instead  of  eight,  if  by  working  four  hours  more 
he  earns  more.1 

What  is,  however,  more  needed  in  America  than  almost 
anything  else  is  a  wider  leisure  and  a  better  knowledge  of 
how  to  use  it.  We  need  shorter  hours  for  workman,  mer- 
chant, banker,  lawyer,  doctor,  engineer.  The  American 
who  has  made  his  money  and  now  dies  of  ennui  represents 
the  situation  at  one  end  of  the  line ;  the  Polish  workman  in 
a  steel  mill  who  labors  all  day  and  every  day,  Sunday,  week- 
day, and  holiday,  represents  it  at  the  other.  Between  the 
two  we  have  the  " ambitious, "  "self-respecting"  hard-work- 
ing man,  with  no  idea  but  labor.  What  does  he  earn,  this 
tame,  virtuous,  self -driven,  over-ambitious  drudge  ?  More 
dollars  in  the  bank,  fewer  years  of  life,  and  fewer  pleasures 
while  he  lives.  Better  a  "sturdy  beggar"  or  a  vermin-in- 
fested tramp  than  a  desiccated  toiler  who  works  twelve 
hours  a  day,  seven  days  in  the  week,  fifty-two  weeks  in  the 
year. 

The  democratic  policies  of  conservation,  education,  and 
the  socialization  of  consumption  have  one  element  in  com- 
mon, a  tendency  to  promote  equality  of  opportunity.  The 
same  element  appears  in  the  fourth  social  policy  of  the 
democracy;  in  the  policy  of  extending  the  advantages  of 
progress  and  democratization  to  all  groups  in  society. 

We  may  secure  the  life  and  health  of  the  people.  We 
may  educate  them  and  promote  a  wise  and  beneficent  con- 
sumption of  the  fruits  of  the  nation's  labor.  One  ques- 
tion, however,  remains.  Who  are  to  be  the  ultimate  bene- 
ficiaries of  all  this  progress  ?    Who  are  to  be  admitted  to, 

1  Professional  men,  not  on  salary,  rarely  care  for  fixed  holidays,  because 
to  so  large  an  extent  they  are  masters  of  their  own  time  and  choose  their 
own  holidays.  Workmen  may  not  miss  a  day  (without  leave)  and  may 
not  be  late  a  minute. 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        335 

and  who  are  to  be  debarred  from,  the  new  civilization  which 
is  preparing  ? 

It  would  be  an  easy  problem  for  democracy  if,  as  stand- 
ards rose,  the  whole  of  the  people  would  rise  with  them. 
Under  such  conditions  progress  would  be  uninterrupted, 
equal,  easy.  Unfortunately,  however,  society  bears  with  it 
always  the  burden  of  the  submerged.  The  ignorant,  in- 
competent, vicious,  weak,  the  feeble-minded  and  feeble- 
willed  we  have  always  with  us.  We  drag  behind  us  the 
chain  and  ball  of  the  ruthlessness  of  the  past.  The 
democracy,  even  when  successful  against  the  pretensions 
of  privilege,  finds  itself  opposed  to  the  obstruction  and 
dead  weight  of  the  nether  world. 

There  is  a  current  theory  that  this  nether  world,  left  to 
itself,  will  destroy  itself,  and  that  in  this  destruction  lies 
the  salvation  of  the  democracy.  This  theory,  which  is 
based  on  an  assumed  analogy  between  biological  and  social 
phenomena,  asserts  that  progress,  even  under  a  democracy, 
can  come  only  through  a  perpetual,  rigorous  weeding  out 
of  the  unfit.  Those  who  fall  into  crime,  prostitution,  and 
misery,  those  who  fail  to  meet  the  standards  set  by  the 
democratic  majority,  must  die  as  the  unfit  have  died  for 
tens  of  thousands  of  centuries.  Workhouses,  jails,  slums, 
hunger,  disease,  must  be  allowed  to  do  their  work. 
/  If  all  the  unfitness  in  society  were  due  to  heredity  and 
none  of  it  were  due  to  social  arrangements,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible painlessly  to  remove  at  each  generation  all  who  were 
indubitably  unfit  to  survive  and  all  who  were  indubitably 
unfit  to  propagate,  we  might  perhaps  resign  ourselves  to 
this  recurring  excision  of  the  submerged.  But  all  this  is 
not  possible.  We  are  not  sure  even  of  our  own  standards 
of  fitness.  As  we  look  over  history,  we  see  that  men  with 
certain  instincts  and  capacities  are  regarded  as  noxious  in 
orie  generation  and  as  social  saviors  in  a  second.  There 
are,Mt  is  true,  extreme  cases  in  which  we  may  act.     We 


ta 


336  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

need  not  suffer  the  indiscriminate  breeding  of  our  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  feeble-minded,  nor  of  others  with  assured 
and  ineradicable  hereditary  taints.  But  with  our  present 
knowledge  we  cannot  go  far  in  this  direction.  We  can  no 
more  trust  ourselves  with  any  absolute  dominion  over  life 
and  death  than  we  could  trust  the  medieval  scribes  with 
the  preservation  of  classical  literature.  That  way  lies  too 
dead  a  uniformity,  too  brutal  a  tyranny  of  the  present 
over  the  future.  We  dare  not  be  overrash  in  the  exter- 
mination of  human  types  which  deviate  from  an  approved 
norm.     We  must  preserve  our  hereditary  heretics. 

No  such  annihilation  of  the  dwellers  of  the  nether  world 
ever  really  takes  place.  The  submerged  social  classes  do 
not  die,  but  merely  become  sick.  And  in  their  sickness 
they  avenge  themselves  upon  society,  much  as  certain 
Orientals  are  supposed  to  do,  by  committing  suicide  on 
their  oppressor's  doorstep.  The  girl  forced  into  prostitu- 
tion through  society's  carelessness  is  not  without  her  revenge 
upon  society.  The  boy  who  becomes  a  criminal,  when 
with  a  little  social  wisdom  he  might  have  been  a  useful 
citizen,  does  not  bear  his  burden  alone.  From  the  nether 
world  spreads  the  virus  of  physical  and  moral  contagion; 
and  every  immorality,  bred  of  weakness,  finds  its  ultimate 
victims  both  above  and  below  the  poverty  line. 

The  nether  world  does  not  die  of  mere  social  neglect, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  grows  upon  it.     Although  the  mor- 

lity  of  the  submerged  is  excessive,  the  nether  world  re- 
acts violently  with  a  birth  rate  so  high  and  desperate  as  to 
fill  the  gutters  with  hopeless  children.  Moreover  the  nether 
world  grows  by  accretion.  Democracy  rests  upon  a  mul- 
titude of  restraints  and  inhibitions.  The  slum  attacks  these 
restraints  and  inhibitions.  It  furnishes  company  to  those 
who  are  tempted  to  fall.  The  sight  of  the  slum,  the  ex- 
ample of  it,  the  direct  teaching  of  it,  draw  ever  new  re- 
cruits.   The  slum  becomes  a  rallying  ground  and  an  alter- 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        337 

native  to  those  who  are  hesitating  on  the  verge  of  demo- 
cratic duties. 

As  the  tolerated  nether  world  grows  through  immigra- 
tion from  above,  so  also  it  grows  through  a  continual  shift- 
ing of  the  social  boundary  between  it  and  the  classes  above. 
The  attitude  of  mind  which  concurs  in  a  division  of  human 
kind  into  the  terrestrially  saved  and  the  terrestrially  damned 
cannot  but  permit  a  similar  division  among  the  men  above 
the  slum.  New  sections  of  the  community  are  left  to 
themselves  to  work  out  their  own  destruction.  The  slum, 
increasing  in  size,  increases  its  power  of  mischief.  In  a 
democracy  in  which  it  does  not  share,  as  in  a  plutocracy, 
the  slum  remains  cynically  corrupt.  In  the  divisions  which 
will  arise  in  the  differentiated  democracy  of  to-morrow,  the 
venal  slum  —  if  it  survives  —  may  well  hold  the  balance 
of  power.  As  to-day,  so  to-morrow,  the  slum  may  share  in 
ruling. 

The  problems  and  possibilities  of  the  democracy  in  its 
relation  to  the  nether  world  are  not  unlike  the  problems 
and  possibilities  of  the  trade-union  in  its  relation  to  men 
incapable  of  earning  union  wages.  As  the  labor  organiza- 
tion raises  the  standard  of  remuneration  of  its  members, 
the  pressure  upon  workingmen  unable  to  secure  employ- 
ment at  these  wages  increases,  with  a  resulting  deep  em- 
bitterment.  So  long  as  the  labor  organization  includes  a 
majority  of  the  more  efficient  men  in  the  trade,  it  is  able  to 
profit  by  its  victories.  If,  however,  there  grows  up  outside 
too  large  or  too  strong  a  body  of  non-unionists;  if  the  union, 
instead  of  striving  to  become  a  majority,  is  content  to  re- 
main a  minority,  a  mere  closed  corporation  resisting  infiltra- 
tion from  below, — then  the  balance  of  power  is  likely  to 
change.  The  rejected  non-unionists  may  overrun  the 
trade.  The  standards,  so  hardly  won,  may  be  abandoned. 
The  union,  defeated  and  brushed  aside,  may  crumble  and 
disintegrate. 


338  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

Like  the  union,  the  democracy  must  combat,  with  all 
the  forces  in  its  control,  the  growth  of  a  disaffected  group 
below  its  level.  It  must  struggle,  not  only  against  the 
oligarchical  few  at  the  top,  but  against  the  creation  of  an 
anti-democratic  helotry  at  the  bottom.     Like  the  union,  it 

/cannot  afford  to  increase  its  numbers  by  lowering  its  stand- 
ards, but  through  education,  through  social  betterment, 
and  through  an  active  and  persistent  propaganda  it  must 
raise  so  many  (if  not  all)  of  the  submerged  to  its  level  as  to 
render  its  own  destruction  impossible.  Like  the  trade- 
union,  the  democracy  must  always  be  open  at  the  bottom. 

The  democracy  is  thus  compelled  to  cure  the  slum  to 
prevent  its  own  destruction  by  the  slum.  Its  instinct  to 
live  as  well  as  its  justice  and  clemency  impel  the  democracy 
to  this  course.  No  democracy  can  be  achieved,  and  no 
democracy,  once  achieved,  can  be  maintained,  except  as 
the  dead  weight  of  the  masses  below  the  democratic  levels 

ris  progressively  lightened. 
The  policy  of  the  democracy  towards  the  submerged 
divides  itself  into  three  parts:  first,  the  redemption  of  men 
who  have  fallen  below  the  democratic  levels;  second,  the 
utmost  possible  prevention  of  social  failures,  not  by  end- 
ing social  contests,  but  by  improving  the  contestants; 
third,  the  provision  of  a  reasonably  satisfactory  situation 
for  incorrigibles,  and  their  effective  isolation  from  the  rest 
of  society. 

This  program  of  the  democracy,  which  is  the  old  pro- 
gram of  human  conservation  upon  a  new  level,  is  so  wide- 
reaching  that  it  is  impossible  to  give  within  a  small  scope 
even  the  vaguest  outlines  of  its  main  features.  What  we 
are  chiefly  seeking  to  do  is  to  shut  off  all  the  channels  which 
lead  to  the  under  world,  to  cure  the  slum  at  its  hundreds  of 
sources. 

Everywhere  progress  along  these  lines,  though  obstructed, 
is  evident.    Although  the  first  juvenile  court  in  the  United 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        339 

States  was  not  established  until  1899,  the  whole  attitude 
of  the  nation  towards  the  delinquent  child  has  already  been 
revolutionized,  and  the  young  boy  who  formerly  would 
have  been  transformed  into  a  criminal  is  now  treated  in 
many  courts  with  tender  solicitude  and  a  far-seeing  social 
wisdom.  Our  whole  social  attitude  towards  children, 
towards  child  labor,  truancy,  the  neglect  of  children,  is 
being  changed.  We  are  beginning  to  see  that  bad  teeth  in 
children,  neglected  adenoids,  or  starved  little  bodies  may 
result  in  hundreds  of  thousands  of  social  wrecks,  and  we  are 
slowly  bringing  ourselves  to  face  the  stupendous  problem 
involved  in  the  neglected  presence  in  our  midst  of  blind, 
crippled,  feeble-minded,  and  defective  children.  The  de- 
mocracy is  reaching  out  into  the  home,  and  the  parental 
tyranny  of  former  days  is  giving  way  to  an  enforced  parental 
responsibility,  based  upon  the  inalienable  and  indestructible 
rights  of  the  child.  A  hundred  years  ago,  a  father  might 
with  impunity  beat,  starve,  or  slowly  kill  his  child,  for  a 
man  could  do  what  he  wished  with  his  own.  To-day  not 
only  do  we  protect  the  child  from  the  cruder  forms  of  physi- 
cal violence,  but  we  enter  into  degraded  homes  to  save  the 
child  from  underfeeding,  physical  or  moral  infection,  and 
exposure  to  evil  influences  of  all  kinds.  Where  parents  are 
too  ignorant,  too  drunken,  too  immoral,  or  too  dispirited 
to  prevent  their  children  from  becoming  a  prey  of  the 
criminal  slum,  the  State  intervenes.  A  California  law  goes 
so  far  as  to  provide  "that  the  expense  of  maintaining  their 
own  children  may  be  allowed  to  parents  out  of  the  public 
funds  at  the  discretion  of  the  court,  within  the  limits  fixed 
by  the  law.1 

As  the  child  is  being  saved  from  contamination,  so  on 
another  plane  the  young  girl  is  being  protected  from  the 

1  Breckinridge  (Sophonisba  P.),  "The  Community  and  the  Child," 
The  Survey,  February  4,  1911,  referring  to  the  McCartney  juvenile  court 
law,  Section  21. 


340  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

most  debasing  influences  of  our  modern  life.  Gradually, 
though  far  too  slowly,  laws  are  being  passed  regulating  the 
hours  of  labor  of  women,1  forbidding  night  work  and  pro- 
hibiting the  employment  of  women  in  certain  dangerous 
and  noxious  trades.  The  magnificent  upbuilding  work  of 
the  Women's  Trade  Union  League,  which  seeks  to  represent 
all  the  interests  of  all  women  employed  in  industry,  is  a 
force  of  tremendous  moment  in  our  struggle  for  democracy, 
and  the  analogous  work  of  protecting  and  guiding  immi- 
grant girls  tends  in  the  same  direction.  Numerous  insti- 
tutions and  societies  arise  for  the  purveying  of  amusement 
and  recreation  both  to  children  and  young  folks,  on  the 
principle  that  all  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  not  only  a 
dull,  but  a  vicious  boy. 

CThe  full  brunt  of  the  democratic  campaign  against  the 
growth  of  an  under  world  thus  lies,  not  so  much  in  the 
uplift  of  those  who  have  fallen,  as  in  the  provision  of  con- 
ditions which  prevent  falling.  "The  new  penology,"  says 
Dr.  Edward  T.  Devine,  "concerns  itself  less  with  what  is 
done  in  penal  and  reformatory  institutions  and  in  courts  — 
radical  as  are  the  changes  which  it  would  introduce  there 
—  than  with  agencies  for  prevention.  Crime  in  the  last 
analysis  is  not  to  be  overcome  after  arrest,  but  before. 
Schools,  churches,  playgrounds,  settlements,  trade-unions, 
and  charitable  societies  —  agencies  of  social  progress  and  of 
social  reform,  public  and  private  —  are  the  handmaidens 
of  the  new  penology.  We  shall  transform  police,  courts, 
and  prisons  when  we  have  further  transformed  society, 
and  the  forces  which  help  to  raise  and  give  stability  and 
vitality  to  our  standards  of  living  and  our  standards  of 
action  are  the  forces  to  which  in  the  end  the  bad  features 
and  the  obsolete  features  of  the  existing  penal  system  will 
yield.     The  environment  is  transformed  by  child  labor  laws 

1  See  the  laws  of  Massachusetts,  New  Jersey,  Wisconsin,  Illinois,  Mis- 
souri, and  other  States. 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        341 

and  the  protection  of  children,  by  housing  laws  and  im- 
proved sanitation,  by  the  prevention  of  tuberculosis  and 
other  diseases,  by  health-giving  recreational  facilities,  by 
security  of  employment,  by  insurance  against  the  fatalities 
of  industry  and  the  financial  burdens  of  death  and  disease, 
by  suitable  vocational  training,  by  all  that  adds  to  the 
content  of  human  life  and  gives  us  higher  and  keener  motives 
to  self-control,  strenuous  exertion,  and  thrift.  The  strong- 
hold of  crime  is  social  misery.  The  cure  for  misery  is  better 
adjustment  of  social  elements  to  one  another  and  to  the 
infinite  possibilities  of  the  environment."  1 

The  mere  existence  of  a  phrase  like  the  "new  penology' ' 
shows  the  changed  spirit  with  which  the  rising  democracy 
faces  the  submerged  masses.  We  are  still  shamed  by  bad 
prisons,  evil  laws,  and  an  absurdly  inadequate  criminal 
procedure.  But  we  are  slowly  passing  out  of  the  old  retali- 
atory attitude  towards  offenders.  We  are  laying  emphasis 
upon  sane  discipline,  physical  exercise,  and  the  instruction 
and  healthy  employment  of  prisoners.  We  are  attacking 
fixed  sentences,  solitary  confinement,  and  inefficient  inspec- 
tion of  jails,  and  we  are  beginning  to  look  upon  the  prison 
almost  as  an  adjunct  to  the  school.  "The  new  penology," 
to  quote  Dr.  Devine  once  more,  "is  not  sentimental.  .  .  . 
At  least  in  its  present  transitional  stage,  the  average  term 
of  restraint  which  it  imposes  is  considerably  longer  than  in 
the  penal  system  which  it  displaces.  It  sentences,  however, 
to  a  hospital  by  preference  rather  than  to  a  dungeon.  It 
sentences  to  cleanliness,  good  food,  and  wholesome  disci- 
pline, and  not  to  infection  and  degradation."2  In  the  same 
way  the  clean,  sanitary  municipal  lodging  house  of  to- 
day, with  its  decent  food  and  its  enforced  compensatory 
work,  begins  to  take  the  place  of  the  vermin-infected  tramp 
lockup,  in  the  congenial  vileness  of  which  hardened  crim- 

1  "The  Correction  and  Prevention  of  Crime,"  The  Survey,  January  21, 
1911.  2  Op.  cit. 


342  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

inals    instruct    the    ingenuous,    occasionally    unemployed, 
boy. 

Fundamentally  the  new  attitude  of  the  democracy 
towards  the  criminal  and  potentially  criminal  classes  is 
one  which  is  dictated  by  wisdom  and  a  growing  sense  of 
social  responsibility.  To  make  outcasts  of  those  who  have 
once  broken  the  law  is  to  increase  the  number  of  society's 
enemies.  Individual  responsibility,  it  is  true,  cannot  be 
done  away  with,  but  in  the  time  to  come  the  culpable 
individual  will  be  allowed  to  plead  the  contributory  neg- 
ligence of  society.  For  every  wayward  man  and  woman, 
society  must  be  called  to  the  bar.  In  other  words,  society 
must  prevent  crime  by  promoting  education  and  happiness, 
or  must  accept  the  underlying  responsibility  for  its  default. 
It  must  not  " punish"  the  criminal  or  hunt  him  forever 
within  society,  but  must  offer  to  him  a  life  which,  though 
dependent  and  below  that  of  the  rest  of  the  population,  is 
at  least  secure,  reasonably  eligible,  and  with  as  little  con- 
straint as  is  consistent  with  the  safety  of  society  and  the 
education  of  the  criminal.  The  democracy  must  not  raise 
up  enemies  within  its  ranks. 

What  applies  to  the  incapables  and  the  criminals,  applies 
with  even  greater  force  to  special  groups  who  are  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  population  and  are  hated  or  despised. 
In  America  we  have  a  racial  problem  of  more  fearful  portent 
than  that  of  any  of  the  nations  of  Europe.  We  are  still 
paying  the  endless  price  of  slavery.  The  South  is  psycho- 
logically cramped.  The  North  is  bewildered.  The  Negro 
problem  is  the  mortal  spot  of  the  new  democracy. 

At  the  moment  we  are  beset  by  the  problem  of  Negro 
suffrage.  It  is  being  urged  by  a  dominant  school  of  thought 
that  the  immediate  salvation  of  the  Negro  is  less  political  | 
than  economic,  and  that  his  possession  of  money  and  edu- 
cation (above  all  of  technical  and  industrial  education)  will] 
eventually  compel  the  grant  to  him  of  full  political  rights 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        343 

at  a  time  when  he  can  best  avail  himself  of  them.  This 
non-resistant  attitude  is  hotly  repelled  by  another  group, 
who  declare  that  Negro  acquiescence  in  Negro  disenfranchise- 
ment  is  a  denial  of  democracy,  a  surrender  to  race  prejudice, 
and  an  obstacle  in  the  path  of  the  accumulation  of  money 
and  education,  which  is  the  very  alternative  proposed  to 
political  rights.  "If  we  have  not  the  vote,"  they  say,  "we 
shall  have  neither  education  nor  justice;  if  we  have  not 
the  vote,  our  schools  will  be  starved  and  our  farms  and  our 
jobs  will  be  lost." 

Whatever  the  merits  of  this  controversy  as  a  matter  of 
ethics  or  practical  politics,  it  seems  probable  that  the 
present  democratic  movement,  uneasily  recognizing  this 
danger  in  its  rear,  will  move  forward,  leaving  the  problem  of 
Negro  suffrage  to  one  side.  It  is  a  sign  of  disillusionment. 
We  look  at  the  Negro  vote  in  Philadelphia  and  Cincinnati, 
and  wonder  whether  it  is  worth  while  to  lay  aside  other 
problems  to  secure  a  Negro  vote  in  Atlanta  and  Charleston. 
Thus  it  happens  that  men,  animated  by  a  spirit  analogous 
to  that  which  freed  the  slaves,  are  seeking  to  ignore  the 
problem  of  Negro  disenfranchisement.  Even  the  Socialist 
party,  which  is  a  defender  of  desperate  causes,  seems  to 
avoid  the  problem. 

It  is  perhaps  possible  to  evade  this  issue  of  Negro  suf- 
frage if  we  can  satisfy  ourselves  that  the  vote  is  not  imme- 
diately essential  to  Negro  civilization;  if  we  can  honestly 
believe  that  the  denial  to  the  Negro  of  the  vote  is  advan- 
tageous, not  only  to  us,  but  to  him.1  We  may  not,  however, 
presume  to  make  the  negro  an  "underman,"  to  offer  him  a 
subhuman  or  a  subcivilized  life.  For  as  he  grows,  the 
Negro,  if  he  be  not  given,  will  take.     Even  as  we  advance, 

1  If,  as  is  claimed,  the  ballot  is,  at  present,  really  disadvantageous  to 
the  Negro,  we  need  not  give  it  to  him  merely  to  be  logical.  But  we  shall 
do  well  to  beware  of  sophistries  intended  merely  to  give  a  justification  to 
our  disinclination  or  fear  of  raising  the  issue.  The  mouse  can  find  many 
reasons,  philanthropic  and  other,  for  not  belling  the  cat. 


344  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

hoping  perhaps  that  the  democracy  won  and  wrought  by 
the  whites  will  descend  as  an  easy  heritage  to  the  reen- 
franchised  Negroes,  we  are  oppressed  by  the  dread  of  what 
may  occur.  There  may  arise  a  Negro  consciousness,  a 
dark  sense  of  outraged  racial  dignity.  There  may  come  a 
stirring  of  a  rebellious  spirit  among  ten,  or,  as  it  soon  will 
be,  of  twenty  or  thirty,  million  black  folk.  We  cannot 
hope  forever  to  sit  quietly  at  the  feast  of  life  and  let  the 
black  man  serve.  We  cannot  build  upon  an  assumed 
superiority  over  these  black  men,  who  are  humble  to-day  r 
but  who  to-morrow  may  be  imperious,  exigent,  and  proudly 
-ace-conscious. 

Moreover,  a  grave  (though  perhaps  not  a  near)  danger 
lies  in  a  failure  to  grapple  with  the  race  problem.  The  time 
may  come  when  the  plutocracy,  hard  driven  by  the  rising 
tide  of  the  new  democracy,  may  attempt  to  save  itself  by 
raising  anew  the  question  of  the  Negro's  position  in  industry 
and  politics.  The  best  antidote  to  democracy  is  jingoism 
and  race  hatred.1  It  is  an  appeal  from  higher  and  newer 
tV  lower  and  older  instincts.  It  is  an  appeal  which  in 
America  would  open  the  dikes  and  let  in  the  dark  waters. 
The  plutocracy,  which  has  much  to  fear  from  a  democrati- 
zation of  politics  and  industry,  would  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  any  Negro  suffrage  which  it  itself  champions ;  and  it 
might  have  much  to  gain  both  from  the  votes  and  the  labor 
of  the  grateful  black  men. 

If  it  be  attempted  to  repress  the  Negroes,  to  show  them 
their  place,  we  may  encounter  the  possibility  of  an  incon- 
ceivably savage  race  war.  If  white  men  and  black  men 
were  ever  to  fight  on  the  old  plantations  of  the  South  we 
should  have  an  awakening  of  brutalities  such  as  no  war  of 

1  The  ally  of  the  reactionary  is  the  "hereditary  enemy."  Once  you  can 
stir  up  race  or  national  hatred,  you  have  postponed  your  social  develop- 
ment. If  you  can  but  hate  a  Spaniard  or  a  Boer,  you  will  for  the  time 
being  cease  to  hate  all  public  iniquity,  however  flaunting. 


THE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        345 

modern  times  has  evoked.  Even  so  trivial  a  thing  as  a 
prize  fight  between  a  Negro  and  a  white  man  led  recently  to 
a  disgusting  subemotional  debauch  of  tens  of  millions  of 
us,  and  to  a  violent  recrudescence  of  the  lynching  spirit. 
If  there  were  ever  a  reign  of  terror  throughout  the  Black 
Belt,  if  a  few  thousand  white  men  and  women  were  to  be 
slaughtered  by  hordes  of  enraged  Negroes,  there  would  be 
a  backwash  of  civilization,  a  recurrence  of  barbarism, 
which  would  reach  to  the  furthermost  hamlets  of  Maine  and 
Oregon. 

And  yet,  if  the  democracy  in  America  is  to  be  a  white 
democracy,  and  the  civilization  in  America  is  to  be  a  white 
civilization ;  if  it  is  proposed  to  make  of  the  Negro  a  thing 
without  rights,  a  permanent  semiemancipated  slave,  a 
headless,  strong-armed  worker,  then  let  the  white  civiliza- 
tion beware.  We  may  sunder  the  races  if  we  can ;  we  may 
preserve  a  race  integrity  if  we  can;  we  may  temporarily 
limit  the  Negro's  suffrage.  If,  however,  we  abate  the  ulti- 
ymate  rights,  prerogatives,  and  privileges  of  either  race,  if 
we  seek  permanently  to  set  up  lower  standards  for  one 
race,  we  shall  plant  the  seeds  of  our  own  undoing.  Our 
self -protection,  as  much  as  our  sense  of  justice,  must  impel 
us  towards  the  increase  in  the  Negro's  ability,  morale,  and 
opportunity.  Just  as  a  diphtheritic  Negro  will  infect  a 
white  man,  just  as  the  tubercle  bacillus,  oblivious  of  the 
color  line,  will  go  from  the  black  man's  home  to  the  Aryan's, 
so  weakness,  immorality,  ignorance,  and  recklessness  will 
spread  from  one  race  to  the  other  as  a  prairie  fire  spreads 
from  farm  to  farm.  Whether  we  love  the  Negro  or  hate 
him,  we  are,  and  shall  continue  to  be,  tied  to  him. 

If  to-day  our  ten  million  American  Negroes  resided,  not 
in  the  United  States,  but  in  a  contiguous  territory,  asking 
for  admission  into  the  Union,  it  is  extremely  improbable 
that  the  mass  of  white  men  would  permit  the  annexation. 
We  might  very  well  feel  that,  however  engaging  many  of 


r 


346  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

the  qualities  of  the  Negroes  are,  and  however  much  the 
present  bitter  racial  antagonism  may  be  allayed,  it  would 
be  the  part  of  folly  to  lay  aside  our  own  problems  to  take 
up  new  problems  of  racial  adjustment.  For  the  Negro's 
sake  as  well  as  for  our  own,  we  should  prefer  to  stay  apart. 

A  somewhat  analogous  problem  is  presented  by  our  in- 
creasing immigration.  Here  it  is  not  a  problem  of  racial 
hatred  so  much  as  it  is  one  of  economic  and  social  adjust- 
ment. We  need  not  claim  a  superiority  over  the  people 
who  throng  in  at  Ellis  Island.  We  may  concede  their 
splendid  qualities,  and  still  advance  proposals  for  the  stem- 
ming of  this  human  flood. 

The  policy  of  a  restriction  of  immigration  does  not  in- 
volve a  disbelief  in  America's  future.  It  does  not  base 
itself  on  the  belief  that  the  country  is  "full  up."  Under 
proper  economic  and  social  conditions,  we  could  easily  take 
care  of  two  hundred,  or  even  more,  millions  of  people. 
The  crux  of  the  difficulty,  however,  is  that  a  too  speedy  and 
unregulated  immigration  tends  to  prevent  the  very  adjust- 
ments which  would  make  the  prosperity  of  the  greater 
millions  possible. 

For  many  decades  Americans  have  hesitated  to  lay  an 
embargo  upon  this  inspiring  westward  movement.  It  was 
our  proudest  boast  —  our  highest  ideal  —  that  America  was 
to  be  the  haven  of  the  world's  oppressed.  So  long  as  we 
had  free  lands  in  the  West,  so  long  as  each  new  immigrant 
added  inevitably  to  the  wealth  of  his  neighbors,  this  ideal 
was  rooted  in  the  economic  conditions.  But  in  the  course 
of  time  we  deeded  away  the  continent  which  was  to  have 
been  the  home  of  the  oppressed,  and,  year  by  year,  we 
found  it  more  and  more  impossible  to  deflect  the  broader 
stream  of  immigration  from  the  congested  districts  of  our 
cities.  To-day  the  ideal  is  in  conflict  with  our  economic  and 
political  conditions.  Failing  its  economic  root,  the  ideal 
has  degenerated  into  a  tradition. 


iTHE  SOCIAL  PROGRAM  OF  THE  DEMOCRACY        347 

In  the  next  decade  or  two  our  intensifying  struggle  for 
democracy  will  render  a  further  restriction  of  immigration 
imperative.  The  change  will  not  be  too  violent,  for  our 
present  residents  will  somehow  smuggle  in  their  nearest 
relatives,  and  there  will  always  be  openings  in  the  gate. 
But  when  we  illogically  and  brutally,  though  wisely,  for- 
bade the  immigration  of  the  Chinese,  we  made  an  unheal- 
able  breach  in  the  rule  of  hospitality,  and  gave  a  precedent 
and  a  colorable  pretext  for  future  restrictions. 

It  is  significant,  to-day,  that  many  of  the  people  who  are 
opposed  to  a  practically  unregulated  immigration  are  the 
very  ones  who  are  seeking  to  promote  the  welfare  of  those 
immigrants  who  are  already  in.  The  policy  of  the  democ- 
racy towards  immigration  is  coming  to  be  one  of  a  check- 
ing of  the  rapidity  of  the  flow,  a  selection  of  the  best  candi- 
dates for  admission,  and  the  quickest  and  most  thorough 
possible  preparation  of  the  accepted  immigrants  for  the 
duties  of  American  citizenship.  (  The  danger  to  the  Ameri- 
can experiment  in  democracy  of  too  near  a  contact  with 
European  poverty  can  hardly  be  overestimated.!  If,  during 
the  next  fifty  years,  we  receive  thirty  or  even  fifty  millions 
of  unsifted  newcomers  from  Europe,  we  may  find  ourselves 
but  little  further  advanced  in  democracy  after  that  period 
than  before.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  we  so  limit  immigration 
that  but  five  or  ten  millions  enter  —  and  if  these  five  or 
ten  millions  be  people  especially  selected  for  their  adjust- 
ability to  American  conditions,  we  may  so  far  advance  in 
the  task  of  improving  the  economic,  political,  and  psy- 
chological development  of  the  masses  as  to  render  inevi- 
table the  progressive  attainment  of  the  social  goal  of  the 
democracy. 


v 


CHAPTER  XX 

CAN   A   DEMOCRACY   ENDURE? 

WHEN  we  review  American  history  from  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  to  these  days,  we  find  that  we  neither 
possess  a  socialized  democracy,  nor  have  we  lost  one.  Neither 
in  1776  nor  in  1789  did  we  have  institutions,  conditions,  or 
habits  of  mind  upon  which  such  a  socialized  democracy 
could  have  been  built.  Our  conquest  of  the  Continent, 
though  essential  to  national  expansion,  and  even  to  national 
survival,  did  not  aid  such  a  democracy,  except  in  so  far  as  it 
provided  for  it  an  eventual  material  basis.  On  the  contrary, 
the  economic,  political,  and  psychological  developments 
inseparably  connected  with  the  struggle  with  the  wilderness 
worked  against  the  immediate  attainment  of  a  socialized 
democracy,  and  led  to  wild  excesses  of  individualism,  which 
in  turn  culminated  in  the  growth  of  a  powerful  and  intrenched 
plutocracy. 

We  are  now  beginning  to  realize  that  our  present  acute 
social  unrest  is  not  due  to  an  attempt  to  return  to  the  condi- 
tions and  principles  of  the  eighteenth  century,  but  is  merely  a 
symptom  of  a  painfully  evolving  democracy,  at  once  indus- 
trial,political,  and  social.  We  are  beginning  to  realize  that  our 
k  stumbling  progress  towards  this  democracy  of  to-morrow  re- 
sults from  the  efforts,  not  of  a  single  class,  but  of  the  general 
community ;  that  the  movement  is  not  primarily  a  class  war, 
^y  but,  because  it  has  behind  it  forces  potentially  so  overwhelm- 
ing, has  rather  the  character  of  a  national  adjustment ;  that 
the  movement  does  not  proceed  from  an  impoverished  people, 
nor  from  the  most  impoverished  among  the  people,  nor  from 
a  people  growing,  or  doomed  to  grow,  continually  poorer, 

348 


CAN  A  DEMOCRACY  ENDURE?         349 

fbut  -proceeds,  on  the  contrary,  from  a  population  growing 
Hn  wealth,  intelligence,  political  power,  and  solidarity.     We 
are  awakening  to  the   fact  that  this   movement,  because 
of  the  heterogeneous  character  of  those  who  further  it,  is 
/tentative,    conciliatory,   compromising,    evolutionary,    and 
J  legal,  proceeding  with  a  minimum  of  friction  through  a  series 
1  of  partial  victories;    that  the  movement  is  influenced  and 
\colored  by  American  conditions  and  traditions,  proceeding, 
/with  but  few  violent  breaks,  out  of  our  previous  industrial, 
/  political,  and  intellectual  development  and  out  of  our  mate- 
/  rial  and  moral  accumulations,   and   utilizing,   even   while 
I  reforming  and  reconstituting,  our  economic  and  legal  machin- 
ery.    It  is  a  movement  dependent  upon  a  large  social  sur- 
plus; a  movement  whigh  grows  in  vigor,  loses  in  bitterness, 
and  otherwise  takes  its  character  from  the  growing  fund  of 
j6\xr  national  wealth,  which  gives  it  its  motive  and  impetus. 
/  Finally,  it  is  a  movement  which  in  the  very  course  of  its 
fulfillment  develops  broad  and  ever  broadening  industrial, 
political,  and  social  programs,  which  aim  at  the  ultimate 
I  maintenance  of  its  results. 

\  The  question,  however,  remains,  Can  such  a  democracy 
Endure?  Are  there  in  society  forces  making  for  the  per- 
manency of  such  a  high  democratic  civilization,  once  at- 
tained ? 

We  may  well  walk  warily  in  this  problem,  since  its  con- 
sideration involves  matters  of  which  we  cannot  surely  know. 
The  telling  of  society's  fortune  —  what  one  may  call  social 
astrology  —  results  in  a  prophecy  which  is  in  part  a  reflex 
of  the  prophet's  personality  and  is  in  part  determined  by  what 
the  credulous  patron  likes  to  hear.  Even  if  we  substitute  for 
pure  prophecy  a  reasoned  social  projection,  — a  mental  carry- 
ing out  of  forces  already  at  work,  —  we  advance  but  little 
along  the  path  of  authority.  Our  data  are  too  few.  We  are 
all  —  pessimists  and  optimists  alike  —  but  clamorous  spec- 
tators before  a  curtain  which  is  just  rising.     We  see  the  feet, 


350  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

not  the  faces,  of  the  actors,  and  we  can  guess  only  rudely  at 
the  play  which  is  going  on.  What  consideration  we  give  to 
the  problem  must  be  accompanied  by  an  admission  that 
from  any  real  knowledge  of  the  future  workings  of  democratic 
principles  we  are  as  far  removed  as  are  they  whose  opinions 
we  repel. 

There  are  many  men,  expurgated  democrats,  who,  while 
they  desire  a  certain  extension  of  democracy,  fear  its  com- 
plete rule  more  than  they  fear  the  rule  of  tyrant  or  dictator. 
They  look  into  the  face  of  the  new  monarch  and  are  afraid. 
They  listen  to  the  prophetic  flatteries  of  popular  courtiers, 
who  appeal  to  the  most  brutish  instincts  of  the  Demos.  They 
call  the  rule  of  the  millions,  not  a  democracy,  but  an  "  och- 
locracy." They  expect  from  this  rule,  not  civilization,  but 
decivilization. 

This  fundamental  dread  of  democracy  lies  in  the  supposed 
incurability  of  its  errors.  In  every  other  form  of  government 
there  is  some  sort  of  quasi-appeal  from  the  minority  to  the 
residual  right  of  revolution  of  the  majority.  But  in  a  de- 
mocracy there  is  no  appeal  from  the  majority.  Only  under 
a  democracy  can  a  nation  commit  suicide.  / 

There  is  a  certain  lack  of  robustness  in  all  these  fears ;  a 
certain  oversophistication  of  men  who  forget  of  what  tough, 
resistant  fiber  our  million-year-old  race  is  made.  We 
have  survived  worse  evils  than  the  worst  with  which  we  are 
now  threatened,  and  we  shall  doubtless  evade  the  "  logically 
inevitable"  results  of  democracy,  as  we  have  evaded  the  logi- 
cally inevitable  results  of  every  other  system  of  government 
and  society.  A  democracy  threatened  with  war,  hunger,  or 
national  extermination  would  instinctively  change  under  the 
stress.  It  would  evolve  vigilance  committees,  committees 
of  public  safety,  temporary  dictators,  who,  if  the  conditions 
demanded  it,  would  become  permanent.  Democracy  is  not 
perpetual  except  in  so  far  as  it  promotes  race  survival.  It  is 
an  experiment,  as  fire  and  clothes  and  science  and  religion 


CAN  A  DEMOCRACY  ENDURE?  351 

are  experiments.  It  is  our  present  hope  that  democracy  has 
many  centuries  in  which  to  develop,  and  that  nothing  but  a 
dissipation  of  our  material  natural  resources  can  produce  the 
threatened  decivilization.  If,  however,  for  any  reason  de- 
mocracy becomes  incompatible  with  progress  and  happiness, 
s  it  will  simply  cease. 

The  supposed  incompatibility  of  democracy  with  progress 
rests  on  the  assumption  that  democracy  means  an  intoler- 
able " tyranny  of  the  majority"  over  the  minority,  of  the 
ignorant  over  the  wise,  of  the  careless  over  the  prudent,  of  the 
mediocre  over  the  men  of  genius  and  spirituality.  It  is 
feared  that  democracy  would  perpetuate  ignorance,  would 
worship  an  unnatural  equality,  would  despise  liberty  and 
the  development  of  individuality.  This  accusation  has  its 
basis  in  several  concepts;  firstly,  that  the  ruling  mass  of 
society  is  and  would  continue  to  be  ignorant,  besotted  with 
a  sense  of  its  knowledge,  jealously  hating  men  of  larger  in- 
telligence, and  hating  to  hear  Aristides  called  the  Just; 
secondly,  that  this  mass  holding  the  reins  of  power  and  rul- 
ing by  its  own  ignorance,  would  have  no  reason  to  educate 
itself  or  to  permit  or  reward  education  in  others.  In  other 
words,  having  no  intellectual  class  to  act  upon  it,  it  would 
remain  intellectually  inert,  an  undrained,  dismal  bog  of 
human  ignorance. 

These  assumptions  prove  on  analysis  to  be  arbitrary. 
The  sullen  jealousy  against  intelligence  found  in  certain  sec- 
tions of  all  populations  seems  due,  in  part  at  least,  to  an  ig- 
norance born  of  evil  social  conditions,  and  directed  against 
men  who  have  had  better  intellectual,  because  they  have  had 
better  economic,  opportunities.  But  the  mass  of  Americans 
cannot  by  the  wildest  exaggeration  be  placed  in  this  mental 
state,  and  the  eyes  of  America,  as  of  the  world,  are  set  towards 
a  greater  and  more  diffused  education.  The  very  lessening 
of  pecuniary  differences  would  inevitably  set  up  competitions 
upon  other  planes,  notably  upon  the  plane  of  intellectual 


352  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

development.    The  more  (though  not  necessarily  the  most) 
intelligent  would  inevitably  exercise  a  dominating  influence 
over  the  less  intelligent.     Then,  as  now,  a  relatively  high 
degree  of  intelligence  among  millions  of  people  would  be 
necessary  to  the  welfare,  even  to  the  very  existence,  of  the 
community,  and  then,  as  now,  even  the  ignorant  voter  would 
know  when  things  went  ill  with  him.     Both  the  opportunities 
and  the  desires  of  men  would  spur  them  to  greater  efforts,  so 
that  a  general  intelligence  of  the  whole  community  on  a  level 
with  that  of  the  more  intelligent  tenth  of  society  to-day  would 
be  well  within  the  range  of  possibility.     The  more  intelligent 
could  not  rule  except  through  the  great  mass,  but  the  incen- 
tive and,  above  all,  the  opportunities  of  the  mass  would  be 
greatly  increased. 
/    To-day  a  part  of  our  educational  initiative  is  due  to  social 
capillarity,  to  a  desire  to  rise  from  one  social  or  economic  class 
to    another.     But    such    desires    and  such    opportunities 
would  also  exist  under  a  socialized  democracy.     No  social 
organization  has  the  remotest  chance  of  establishment  which 
is  not  based  on  the  fullest  recognition  of  the  inherent  ine- 
qualities of  men,  and  of  the  infinitely  wide  range  of  human 
tastes,  capacities,  and  aptitudes.     What  a  socialized  democA 
racy  demands  is  an  equalization,  not  of  men,  but  of  oppor-  \ 
tunities,  although  by  raising  the  status  of  the  lowest,  it  re- 
duces by  comparison  the  material  rewards  of  the  successful.  > 
Its  effect,  however,  should  on  the  whole  be  an  increase  rathe^ 
than  a  decrease  in  the  competition  for  the  superior  positions^ 
To-day,  to  employ  a  certain  exaggeration,  the  son  of  a  banker 
becomes  a  banker  much  as  the  Prince  of  Wales  becomes 
king  of  England.     The  chance  of  a  banker's  son  becoming  a 
hodcarrier  is  only  a  little  less  than  the  chance  of  the  hod- 
carrier's  son  becoming  a  banker.     The  competition  for  the 
superior  position  and  the  competition  for  the  education  which 
will  qualify  for  the  superior  position  are  very  much  less  in  our 
wealth-stratified  society  of  to-day  than  they  would  be  in  a 


CAN  A  DEMOCRACY  ENDURE?         353 

socialized  democracy,  in  which  the  fullest  conceivable  oppor- 
tunities would  be  accorded  to  all.  To  use  a  loose  illustration, 
the  establishment  of  a  socialized,  differentiated  democracy 
should  have  the  same  influence  upon  education  and  the/ 
struggle  for  a  favored  position  as  has  the  establishment  of 
competitive  civil  service  examinations  for  positions  which 
formerly  went  by  favor.  ^+**S 

f  The  fear  of  a  destruction  of  human  liberty  seems  equally 
unfounded.  It  is  true  that  a  democracy  which  did  not  have 
its  basis  in  economic  and  social  needs  might  possibly  re- 
strict liberty,  for  essentially  unstable  governments  can  only 
I  maintain  themselves  —  and  that  only  temporarily  —  by 
encroachments  upon  the  rights  of  the  citizens.  If,  however, 
we  assume  that  a  socialized  democracy  is  the  best  form  for 
attaining  the  material  welfare  of  the  majority,  and  if  by 
liberty  we  mean  the  right  to  do  things  which  one  should  have 
the  right  to  do,  then  there  is  no  reason  why  a  socialized 
democracy  should  not  mean  an  increase,  rather  than  a  de- 
crease, in  the  sum  total  of  liberty. 

Much  of  our  complaint  about  the  restriction  of  liberty  is 
an  echo  from  the  forest,  a  belated  cry  from  the  old  pioneer 
period.  It  is  true  that  many  absurd  laws  restrictive 
of  liberty  are  annually  enacted.  But  a  real  need  of  re- 
strictive legislation  results  from  the  greater  density  of  our 
population  and  the  increasing  number  of  social  liens  and 
contacts.  On  the  frontier  addiction  to  a  phonograph  is  a 
habit  which  may  well  be  left  to  the  individual  and  his  con- 
science. In  a  membranous  New  York  apartment  house  a 
man's  unregulated  right  to  indulge  his  musical  tastes  may  run 
counter  to  his  neighbor's  equal  right  to  sleep  soundly  of 
nights.  The  city,  the  factory,  the  trust,  the  huge  fortune 
have  given  birth  to  a  host  of  possible  offenses  which  did  not 
before  exist.  Moreover,  as  has  already  been  pointed  out, 
economic  freedoms  can  often  only  be  attained  by  legal  pro- 
hibitions, and  what  is  often  interpreted  as  a  limitation  of 

2a 


354  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

freedom  is  in  effect  an  increase  of  liberty,  through  the  pro- 
tection of  some  individuals  from  the  hitherto  permitted 
aggressions  of  others.  Unfortunately,  there  are  only  two  \ 
means  of  preserving  the  citizens'  liberty  —  education  anjk- 
the  policeman's  club.  The  prohibition  of  employing  chil- 
dren in  factories,  while  it  may  in  individual  cases  adversely 
affect  a  child  or  its  parents,  is  so  protective  of  the  rights  of 
children  as  a  whole  that  it  is  as  much  an  increase  in  the  liber- 
ties of  the  citizens  as  is  the  prohibition  of  counterfeiting, 
wife  beating,  and  highway  robbery.  Under  a  socialized 
democracy,  we  shall  have  an  increase  in  the  amount  of  educa- 
tion, in  the  number  of  legal  inhibitions,  and  in  the  sum  total 
(of  the  liberties  of  the  citizens. 
All  these  arguments  are  adduced  against  democracy  on 
the  ground  that  it  is  too  evil  to  survive.  An  equally  in- 
veterate argument  is  advanced  that  it  is  "too  good  to  be 
true." 

Seemingly  illogical  as  is  this  argument,  there  is,  nevertheless, 
a  certain  basis  for  it  in  our  past  experience.  We  have  never 
had  a  Utopia,  though  we  have  often  dreamed  that  we  were 
on  the  verge  of  one.  Mankind  "never  is,  but  always  to  be, 
blest."  A  perfect  state  of  terrestrial  bliss,  a  lying  down 
together  of  the  human  lion  and  the  human  lamb,  is  as  remote 
from  our  racial  experience  as  is  the  collision  of  sun  and 
moon. 

The  mortal  defect  of  Utopias  is  that  they  are  too  static. 
The  kingdom  of  heaven  on  earth  is  always  a  permanent, 
unchanging,  perfect,  and  unutterably  stupid  place,  than 
which  our  present  society,  with  all  its  imperfections,  is  vastly 
superior.  Utopias  break  down  because  they  represent 
attainment,  fulfillment.  But  society  does  not  strive  towards 
fulfillment,  but  only  towards  striving.  It  seeks  not  a  goal, 
ibut  a  higher  starting  point  from  which  to  seek  a  goal. 
/  Opposed  to  such  Utopias  our  present  ideal  of  a  social- 
ized   democratic    civilization    is    dynamic.     It    is    not    an 


CAN  A  DEMOCRACY  ENDURE?  355 

idyllic  state  in  which  all  men  are  good  and  wise  and  in- 
sufferably contented.  It  is  not  a  state  at  all,  but  a  mere 
direction.  J  / 1 

Were  we  to  move  into  a  democratic,  socialized  civiliza- 
tion, where  misery  had  become  as  unknown  as  witchcraft 
to-day;  where  the  people,  educated  and  in  process  of  educa- 
tion, ruled  in  their  own  interest  both  in  industry  and  politics; 
where  the  common  wisdom  of  a  nation  was  united  to  solve 
common  problems  and  work  out  a  common  destiny,  we 
should  still  be  faced  by  problems  new  and  old.  We  should 
carry  into  the  new  civilization  the  tenacious  appetites  of 
to-day.  We  should  struggle  along  with  human  frailties,  with 
a  residual  ignorance,  perverseness,  meanness  of  outlook, 
exaggerated  egotism.  With  the  raising  of  the  standard  of 
life  we  should  awaken  new  appetites  and  stimulate  present 
ones.  Our  racial  hatreds,  our  inveterate  race  animosities, 
would  give  way  but  slowly,  so  that  even  in  a  society  advanced 
in  civilization,  lynchings  and  other  horrible  reversions  to 
barbarism  might  occasionally  occur.  We  may  not  hug  the 
illusion  of  an  instantaneous  change  in  the  old  clinging  evils. 
Drunkenness,  prostitution,  and  a  whole  series  of  vices  which 
are  but  pathological  social  forms  of  normal  human  instincts 
will  but  slowly  give  way.  "  Virtue  cannot  so  inoculate  our 
old  stock  but  we  shall  relish  of  it." 

With  all  these  evils  we  need  not  now  concern  ourselves. 
It  will  be  a  wonderful  advance  in  society  when  our  crimes 
and  vices  will  be  crimes  and  vices  of  prosperity  instead  of 
those  of  poverty.  We  may  confidently  face  the  new,  un- 
known dangers  of  prosperity  with  the  powers  and  knowledge 
which  that  prosperity  will  bring.  For  this  century  we  need 
but  take  this  century's  forward  step.  If  we  can  extirpate 
misery,  that  will  be  progress  enough. 

By  the  rigorous  Malthusians,  we  are  told  that  even  this 
more  moderate  program  is  now  and  forevermore  impossible. 
We  are  warned  that  a  democracy  which  gives  an  assured 


356  THE  NEW  DEMOCRACY 

income  to  all  will  stimulate  our  lax  and  thoughtless  millions 
to  so  rash  a  procreation  as  to  cause  society  to  expand  beyond 
the  food  supply  necessary  for  its  support. 

Forty  years  ago  this  dreadful  threat  of  human  fecundity 
still  lay  like  an  incubus  upon  the  souls  of  all  social  reformers. 
Malthus  was  the  prophet.  We  saw  the  nations  growing  daily 
in  population.  France  and  Ireland  were  exceptions,  but 
France  was  alleged  to  be  decadent,  and  distressful  Ireland 
was  admittedly  bleeding  through  emigration.  But  since 
the  eighties  the  birth  rate  in  one  nation  after  another,  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  Wales,  Germany,  France,  Italy,  Belgium, 
Sweden,  etc.,  has  declined,  and  to-day  we  are  spectators  of 
a  world-wide  decrease  in  natality  in  almost  all  nations  and  in 
almost  all  sections  of  all  nations.  The  more  democratic  and 
advanced  nations  seem  on  the  whole  those  whose  birth  rate 
has  most  rapidly  fallen.  If  the  birth  rate  continues  to  de- 
cline (even  though  the  decline  in  the  death  rate  also  con- 
tinue), the  danger  of  decivilization  through  overpopulation 
will  be  completely  dissipated. 

According  to  others  the  menace  to  democracy  lies  less  in 
the  fear  of  overpopulation  than  in  that  of  depopulation. 
Numbers  are  an  element  (although  only  one  element)  of 
national  power.  Democracy,  with  its  high  national  pro- 
ductiveness, may  mean  a  capacity  for  sustaining  larger  popu- 
lations, but  the  individual  ambitions  and  the  higher  stand- 
ards of  living  among  a  democratic  population  may  result 
in  an  excessive  and  debilitating  slackening  of  the  rate  of  in- 
crease and  in  a  lessened  fighting  capacity,  which,  until  world- 
wide changes  have  worked  themselves  out,  must  remain  the 
ultimate  determinant  between  rival  civilizations.  It  is 
conceivable  that  frugal,  prolific,  and  undemocratic  civiliza- 
tions will  become  the  most  formidable.  There  may  possibly 
come  a  time  when  a  hundred  million  highly  cultivated  Ameri- 
cans may  be  threatened  by  half  a  billion  well-armed,  well- 
organized,  prolific,  and  abstemious  Celestials,  as  Gaul  was 


CAN  A  DEMOCRACY  ENDURE?         357 

threatened  and  at  last  overrun  by  the  Franks,  and  Britain 
by  the  Saxons  and  Danes. 

That  this' problem,  like  others,  may  some  day  arise  to  tax 
the  resources  and  the  wisdom  of  an  American  democracy 
cannot  to-day  be  gainsaid.  If  democracy  means  a  lessened 
population,  and  that  in  turn  means  a  lessened  capacity  for 
defense,  then  in  future  generations  we  may  well  be  forced 
to  accommodate  our  further  progress  in  democratic  evo- 
lution to  that  which  is  made  to  other  formidable  nations. 
For  the  time  being,  however,  the  danger  is  too  shadowy  and 
hypothetical  to  justify  any  slackening  of  our  progress  towards 
a  socialized  democracy.  We  need  not  put  on  our  armor  for 
battles  which  our  children  must  fight. 


INDEX 


Abolitionism,  effectiveness  of,  due  to  its 
harmonizing  with  the  American 
economic  trend,  73  n. 

Absolute  socialism,  theory  of  as  pro- 
pounded by  Marx  and  Engels,  171- 
173 ;  the  religious  quality  in,  173 ; 
upsetting  of  the  theory,  174-177; 
non-consummation  of  the  class-war 
doctrine  of,  177-178;  attempted 
adjustment  of  old  absolute  theories 
to  modern  broad  democratic  im- 
pulses, 182-183. 

Adams,  John,  supporter  of  the  "gentle- 
man's" form  of  government,  10,  16. 

Advertising,  effect  of,  in  limiting  freedom 
of  expression  in  newspapers,  122- 
124. 

Agricultural  wealth  of  United  States, 
205  ;  statistics  of  increase  in  (1850- 
1900),  213,  214. 

Alcoholic  beverages,  government  prohi- 
bition of  sale  of,  an  expression  of 
socialization,  289-290. 

Alcoholism,  interactions  between  in- 
sanity, child  mortality,  tuberculosis, 
etc.,  and,  332  n. 

Alien  and  Sedition  Laws,  16. 

Amendment  of  the  Constitution,  13,  14- 
15,  110,  266-267,  316-318. 

Anarchy  of  consumption,  the  present 
era  of,  330-332. 

Antagonism,  the  propagandist's  prefer- 
ence for,  over  indifference,  272  n. 

Automobiles  and  plutocrats,  246  n. 

Autonomy,  industrial,  theory  of,  281  n. ; 
basis  of  the  objection  of,  to  govern- 
ment regulation,  288;  overturning 
of  theory  of,  289. 


Banking  business  of  federal  government, 

extension  of,  284. 
Beef  Trust,  82,  86. 
"Benevolent  feudalism,"   the  prophecy 

of  a.  4. 


Bernstein,  Edward,  cited,  177  n. 

Birth  rate,  decrease  in,  implies  an  im- 
proved standard  of  living,  320; 
excessively  high,  in  the  nether  social 
world,  336 ;  the  Malthusian  theory 
vs.  the  facts  as  regards  countries  of 
Western  Europe,  355-356. 

Books  as  an  outlet  for  free  opinion,  134. 

Boss,  origins  of  the,  under  the  Jacksonian 
regime,  18. 

Bowley,  Arthur  L.,  cited,  174  n. 

Breckinridge,  S.  P.,  cited,  339. 

Bribery  in  politics,  57-58,  98-99,  101- 
103.     See  Corruption. 

Brook  Farm,  73,  74. 

Bryce,  James,  quoted  on  the  American 
plutocracy,  79;  on  congressional 
committees,  116;  on  public  opinion 
in  the  United  States,  137 ;  on  devel- 
opment of  higher  education  in  the 
United  States,  230;  on  growing 
intelligence  of  the  American  masses, 
232  n. 


Charity  as  arranged  by  plutocracy's 
code  of  reform,  143. 

Children,  change  in  the  social  attitude 
toward,  339. 

Chinese,  illogical  and  brutal  wisdom  of 
exclusion  of,  347. 

City,  rapid  development  of  the,  34 ;  pre- 
emption of  the,  by  politicians  and 
financiers,  34-35;  the  American 
city  of  the  Centennial  year,  67-68 ; 
facility  of  creation  of  public  opinion 
in,  232. 

City-dwellers,  improvement  in  status  of 
American,  212-213. 

Civil  Service,  effect  of  reform  of  the,  301. 

Class  war,  theory  of  a,  to  attain  a  real 
social  democracy,  169;  earliest 
form  of  the  theory  in  the  Commu- 
nistic Manifesto  of  1848,  170 ;  abso- 
lute socialism  and  the,  171-173 ; 
theory  of,  untenable  on  the  premises 
of  Karl  Marx,  173-178 ;  men  in 
America  who  are  misled  into  pre- 


359 


360 


INDEX 


dieting  a,  178-179;  question  of 
leadership  of  the  proletariat  forces 
in,  180-181 ;  toning  down  of  theory 
of,  among  socialists  themselves,  181- 
182 ;  awkward  dilemma  of  socialist 
supporters  of  theory,  between  the 
city  proletariat  and  the  farmers, 
183-184 ;  extent  of  surrender  of  the 
doctrine  shown  by  National  Pro- 
gram of  the  Socialist  party,  186  n.; 
the  democratic  socialization  of 
American  industry  and  life  will  cause 
less  to  be  heard  of  the  doctrine  in 
future,  189. 

Coal  supplies,  danger  of  exhaustion  of, 
285. 

Commission  government  of  cities,  313. 

"Common  goods,"  state  supply  of,  by 
way  of  socializing  consumption,  332. 

"Common  people,"  the  classes  of  Ameri- 
cans composing  the,  236-239. 

Communistic  experiments  as  protests 
against  reckless  American  indi- 
vidualism, 72-73. 

Communist  Manifesto  of  1848,  170; 
quoted  on  the  "dangerous  class," 
181  n. 

Competition,  individualism  and,  45; 
gambling  the  logical  conclusion  of, 
46 ;  the  end  of,  in  the  swallowing  up 
of  the  small  competitor,  47-^49 ; 
under  the  regime  of  the  trust  and 
under  socialization,  281-283  ;  com- 
petition in  consumption  as  well  as 
in  production,  330. 

Competitive  industries  and  monopolies, 
approximate  distinction  between, 
282  n. 

Confiscation,  not  an  accompaniment  of 
the  democratic  advance,  260-261 ; 
the  doubtful  boundary  line  between 
taxation,  regulation,  fair  payment, 
and,  263  n. 

Conflict,  the  element  of,  in  social  ad- 
vance, 261-262. 

Congress,  originally  not  a  popularly 
elected  body,  14 ;  need  of  changes 
in,  in  behalf  of  the  democracy,  116- 
117,  304,  315. 

Congressional  committees,  evils  of  sys- 
tem of,  116-117. 

Connecticut,  property  qualification  for 
voting  in  early,  9. 

Conquest  of  the  American  continent,  and 
effects  on  democracy,  23-35;  the 
national  consciousness  a  fruit  of  the, 
65. 


Conservation  of  life  and  health,  320- 
326. 

Conservation  of  natural  resources,  op- 
posed through  fear  of  government 
ownership  and  operation,  285;  to 
what  grand  social  end  it  may  be 
carried  by  the  government,  286, 
314. 

Constitution,  the  federal :  the  political 
wisdom  of  dead  America,  12-13 ; 
how  subversive  of  the  popular 
interest,  13-15 ;  defect  of  un- 
changeableness  of,  15;  reason  for 
its  satisfactory  working,  16 ;  Amer- 
ican loyalty  to  the  ideal  of  the,  gives 
the  plutocracy  its  main  hold,  107- 
108 ;  interpretation  of,  by  the 
Supreme  Court,  109 ;  the  inability 
to  amend  is  a  flat  negation  of  de- 
mocracy, 110;  measures  of  social 
reform  which  cannot  be  adopted 
because  of  the,  111 ;  Fourteenth 
Amendment  to,  and  the  corpora- 
tions, 114-115;  measures  proper 
for  democracy  to  take  concerning, 
until  it  becomes  amendable,  266- 
267;  fate  of,  under  program  of 
political  democratization,  depends 
upon  its  amendability,  316-318. 

Consumers,  the  democracy  united  on 
common  basis  of,  250-253. 

Consumption,  statistics  of,  216,  220 ;  a 
frantic  competitive,  for  which  the 
plutocracy  sets  the  pace,  246-247; 
socialization  of,  320,  330-334. 

Corporations,  the  small  investor's  share 
in  capital  of,  87-88;  business  se- 
crecy and  uncontrolled  financial 
methods  of,  88-89;  Fourteenth 
Amendment  invoked  in  behalf  of, 
114-115;  regulation  of,  276-277; 
increasing  extent  of  federal  control 
of,  290-291. 

Corruption,  party,  in  the  new  democracy 
of  Andrew  Jackson,  18 ;  use  of,  as  a 
weapon  by  the  plutocracy,  96  ff . ; 
existence  of,  since  founding  of  the 
American  republic,  97;  change  of 
character  and  source  in  present-day, 
97-99;  tacit  league  between  city, 
State,  and  national  corruption,  100- 
101 ;  the  political  party  the  main 
channel  for,  104  ;  remedial  effect  of 
the  referendum  on,  308-310. 

Cost  of  living,  ratio  between  wage  in- 
crease and,  221-222. 

Courts,    question    of    exemption    from 


INDEX 


361 


criticism,  113;  complications,  in- 
volutions, and  procrastinations  of, 
116-116. 
Crime,  punishment  of,  in  early  America, 
11-12;  treatment  of,  by  the  new 
democracy,  340-342. 


Dartmouth  College  Case,  114. 

Declaration  of  Independence,  2,  7,  9,  12, 
17,  21,  51;  a  beautiful  ideal,  8; 
political  and  economic  philosophy 
of,  compared  with  that  of  the 
"Wealth  of  Nations,"  52-53. 

Delaware,  qualifications  for  holding  of- 
fice in,  in  1776,  9. 

Democracy,  American :  disillusionment 
concerning,  1-4 ;  does  democracy 
pay?  4 ;  birth  of  a  new,  4-5;  ques- 
tion of  character  of  the  new,  5-6 ; 
real  character  of  the  "shadow- 
democracy"  of  1776,  7-12 ;  the  fed- 
eral Constitution  and  democracy, 
12-16 ;  progress  of  new  spirit  of,  in 
first  quarter  of  nineteenth  century, 
17-18 ; v  belief  in  the  attainment  of, 
with  the  inauguration  of  Jackson, 
18-19;  the  democracy  of  1829  an 
advance  on  that  of  contemporaneous 
world,  19 ;  America  now  outdis- 
tanced by  Europe  in,  and  reasons, 
20-22 ;  effects  of  slavery  and  of  the 
necessity  of  conquering  the  conti- 
nent on,  21-22 ;  the  springing  up  of 
the  new  social,  as  an  antagonist  of 
the  plutocracy,  118-119;  accom- 
panies the  plutocracy  in  its  invasion 
of  politics,  119 ;  wherein  the  concep- 
tion of  efficiency  held  by  the  new 
democracy  differs  from  that  of  the 
plutocracy,  149-150;  arguments  of 
the  plutocracy  against  the  new 
democracy,  153-154 ;  a  full,  free, 
socialized  democracy  rendered  inevi- 
table by  the  plutocratic  program, 
155;  evolution  of  this  democracy 
traced,  158-161 ;  wherein  the  new 
social  democracy  differs  from  the 
Jeffersonian  and  Jacksonian  indi- 
vidualistic democracy,  161-162 ;  the 
social  democracy  a  revolutionary 
movement  by  its  very  nature,  165- 
167;  reactions  inevitably  excited, 
167 ;  theory  of  attainment  of  a  social 
democracy  by  a  war  between  classes, 
169  ff . ;    leaders   of  the  social   de- 


mocracy not  to  spring  from  the  most 
indigent  classes,  as  illustrated  by 
the  Negro  and  recent  immigrants, 
180;  and  the  class  war,  189-190; 
rendered  ultimately  inevitable  by 
the  creation  of  a  social  surplus,  194  ; 
three  levels  of  democratic  striving 
necessary  to  maintain  in  order  to 
secure,  207 ;  the  various  forces  con- 
stituting the,  235  ff. ;  composed  in 
the  final  summing  up  of  a  residue  of 
population  after  the  very  rich  and 
the  abjectly  poor  have  been  drawn 
off,  237-238 ;  question  of  ability  of 
these  forces  to  unite,  239-240; 
elements  of  solidarity  found  in 
antagonism  to  the  plutocracy  and  a 
common  interest  in  the  social  sur- 
plus, 244;  analysis  of  antagonism 
of,  to  the  plutocracy,  244-249; 
basis  of  common  hostility  to  plutoc- 
racy supplemented  by  the  common 
aim  of  a  desire  to  share  in  the  social 
surplus,  249-250;  with  elements  of 
solidarity  in  the  way  of  common 
antagonism  to  plutocracy  and  desire 
to  share  in  the  social  surplus,  by 
minor  adjustments  permanent  unity 
of  democratic  forces  will  be  attained, 
253 ;  primary  factors  determining 
tactics  of,  255;  influence  of  tradi- 
tion on  experiments  of,  255;  of 
growing  social  surplus,  255-256 ; 
of  wide  diversity  in  democratic 
forces,  256 ;  resort  to  violence  un- 
likely, in  the  tactics  of  the  democ- 
racy, 256-259 ;  confiscation  of 
plutocratic  property  unlikely,  260- 
261 ;  extent  to  which  the  evolution 
of  democracy  is  a  social  conflict, 
261-263  ;  internal  adjustment  of,  a 
process  of  uniting  diversified  groups, 
263;  while  not  favoring  confisca- 
tion, does  attack  swollen  fortunes, 
monopolies,  special  privileges,  busi- 
ness secrecy,  etc.,  263-264;  the 
goal  of  democracy  a  maximum  of 
control  with  a  minimum  of  regula- 
tion, 264;  successive  steps  toward, 
in  control  of  natural  resources,  be- 
ginning of  taxation  of  inheritances, 
etc.,  266;  measures  to  be  taken  to 
secure  political  control,  266-267; 
consistent  and  constructive  policy 
needed  by,  268-270;  necessity  of 
harmony  among  its  groups,  270- 
271 ;    inertness  and  indifference  to 


362 


INDEX 


be  overcome  by,  271-272;  cam- 
paign of  education  necessary,  273 ; 
socialization  of  industry  aimed  at, 
through  government  ownership,  gov- 
ernment regulation,  tax  reform,  etc., 
276  ff . ;  promotion  of  industrial 
democracy  by  the  trade-union,  292- 
293 ;  political  program  of  the, 
298  ff. ;  chief  aim  of  program,  as 
shown  by  direct  nominations,  the 
recall,  the  initiative,  and  the  refer- 
endum, is  direct  appeal  to  the 
majority,  310;  social  program  of 
the,  320  ff . ;  conservation  of  life 
and  health  by  the,  320-326;  pro- 
gressively diffused  education  neces- 
sary to  maintenance  of  the,  326- 
330 ;  solution  of  the  problem  of  the 
submerged,  335-342 ;  the  problem 
of  the  Negro,  342-346;  the  immi- 
gration question,  346-347;  the 
movement  toward  the  new  democ- 
racy is  a  result  of  the  efforts  of  the 
general  community,  348-349 ;  ques- 
tion of  permanency  of,  349  ff . ; 
fear  and  dread  of  the,  and  reasons, 
350-351 ;  supposed  incompatibility 
of,  with  progress,  351-353 ;  fear  of 
destruction  of  human  liberty  under, 
353-354;  the  argument  that  it  is 
"too  good  to  be  true,"  354-355; 
the  overpopulation  threat,  355-356 ; 
the  menace  of  depopulation,  356- 
357. 

Democratic  striving,  three  levels  of,  207- 
208;  the  economic  level,  209-223; 
the  intellectual  level,  223-233; 
the  political  level,  233-234. 

Democratization,  of  political  parties  and 
primaries,  297-301 ;  of  elections, 
301  ff.j  of  education,  320,  326- 
330. 

Department  stores  as  illustrating  stand- 
ardization, 82  n.,  143. 

Depopulation,  supposed  menace  of,  in  a 
socialized  democracy,  356-357. 

Devine,  Edward  T.,  quoted  on  the  new 
penology,  340-341. 

Direct  primaries,  298,  299,  300,  304. 

Disillusionment  in  regard  to  American 
democracy,  1-4. 

Distribution  of  wealth,  inequalities  in, 
an  argument  against  the  efficiency 
argument  of  the  plutocracy,  144- 
146. 

Dwight,  Timothy,  quoted  on  nineteenth 
century  individualists,  72. 


Economic  level  of  democratic  striving, 
209-223. 

Education,  believed  in  by  the  plutoc- 
racy, 143 ;  element  of,  in  demo- 
cratic striving,  223;  the  American 
instinct  for,  224-225;  a  diffused, 
a  necessity  to  democracy,  225; 
wealth  means,  226;  figures  of 
illiteracy  and  literacy,  227 ;  tre- 
mendous difficulties  encountered  by 
American,  229 ;  statistics  of  present- 
day,  230;  influence  of  libraries  in, 
231 ;  campaign  of,  necessary  for 
the  democratic  advance,  273 ;  the 
democratization  of,  320,  326  ff . ; 
indispensability  of,  to  the  mainte- 
nance of  a  socialized  democracy, 
326-328;  advocacy  of  free,  from 
kindergarten  to  university,  328; 
imperative  need  of  improvement  in 
methods  of,  329-330;  necessary  to 
a  high  national  efficiency  in  a 
democracy,  328-330;  influence  of, 
upon  national  consumption  will  be 
increasingly  felt,  332-333  ;  preven- 
tion of  crime  by  promoting,  342 ; 
desire  for,  due  to  social  capillarity, 
would  continue  under  a  socialized 
democracy,  352. 

Educational  reform  in  the  Jacksonian 
epoch,  18. 

Efficiency,  argument  of,  in  behalf  of  the 
plutocracy,  139  ff . ;  confuting  of 
argument  of,  by  self-evident  in- 
equalities in  distribution  of  wealth, 
144-146;  the  conception  held  by 
the  new  democracy,  149-150 ;  com- 
parison of  governmental  and  pri- 
vate business  efficiency,  312-313 ;  a 
widely  diffused  education  necessary 
to  the  highest  national,  328-330. 

Elections,  democratization  of,  300-310. 

Engels,  Friedrich,  171,  172  n.,  181  n. 

England,  per   capita  wealth  of,   201   n. 

Equality,  social,  the  exception  in  early 
America,  10-11. 

Equality  of  opportunity,  democratic 
policies  of  conservation,  education, 
and  socialization  of  consumption 
tending  toward,  320-334. 

Europe,  poverty  of  countries  of,  com- 
pared with  America,  201-202; 
status  of  workmen  in,  compared 
with  that  of  American  workmen, 
215-216 ;      government    ownership 


INDEX 


363 


in,  283 ;  lowering  of  birth  rate  in, 
355-356. 
Exploitation,  evolution  of  doctrine  of, 
out  of  growing  disproportion  be- 
tween social  surplus  and  social 
misery,  200. 


Factory  labor,  evil  effects  of,  70-71. 

Factory  laws,  improvement  and  exten- 
sion of,  325-326. 

Farmer,  improvement  in  status  of  the, 
176-177,  211-212;  statistics  of 
increase  in  value  of  farm  property, 
213-214 ;  the  great  farm  vs.  the 
small  farm,  214. 

Feudalism,  comparison  of  the  era  of 
plutocracy  and,  140  n. 

Force,  resort  to,  not  among  the  weapons 
of  the  democracy,  256-259. 

Forest  Service  figures,  285  n. 

Fourteenth  Amendment  to  Constitution, 
protection  of  corporations  by  the, 
114-115. 


Gambling,  the  outcome  of  the  American 
spirit  of  individualism,  46-47;  end 
of  gambling,  or  competition,  is  the 
swallowing  up  of  the  small  gambler, 
47-49. 

Gide,  Charles,  cited,  175  n. 

Goodnow,  Frank  J.,  "Social  Reform  and 
the  Constitution"  by,  quoted,  111— 
112. 

Government,  the  American:  kept  in  sub- 
jection by  the  exponents  of  Ameri- 
can democracy,  52-54 ;  once  created 
was  left  to  itself,  54;  its  spirit  of 
eternal  compromise,  54 ;  ends  by 
offering  itself  for  exploitation  to  the 
two  dominating  political  parties, 
55  ;  character  of,  furnishes  suitable 
conditions  for  growth  of  political 
parties,  55-56 ;  system  of,  now  in 
favor  of  the  plutocracy,  117;  the 
new  democracy's  program  relative  to 
amending  and  improving  the,  298- 
319. 

Government  ownership  and  regulation 
of  industry,  the  aim  of  the  new 
democracy,  276-277;  as  urged  in 
party  platforms,  278-279;  back- 
wardness of  America  in,  compared 
with    Europe,    283;     three   factors 


leading  to  an  extension  of,  283; 
question  of  extent  of,  284-285; 
possibility  of  ending  in  competition 
with  private  business,  286 ;  in  some 
instances  private  ownership  sub- 
ject to  public  control  more  desirable 
than,  287 ;  wherein  the  trust  has 
the  advantage  over,  287-288 ;  illus- 
trations of  cases  of  government 
regulation,  289-290;  steady  ad- 
vance in,  290;  regulation  of  rail- 
roads, 290-291 ;  vast  scope  of  and 
benefits  accruing  from,  291-292; 
possibility  of  regulation  of  wages  and 
prices,  293  n. 

Graft,  57-58;  not  a  new  thing  in 
America,  97.     See  Corruption. 

Grant,  President,  corruption  under,  97. 


Hadley,  Arthur  T.,  quoted,  114-115. 

Hamilton,  Alexander,  13,  16. 

Hartford  Convention,  17. 

Health,  government  conservation  of, 
320-326. 

Hours  of  labor,  the  need  for  shorter,  150, 
333-334 ;  for  women,  340. 

House  of  Representatives,  national,  14 ; 
arrangements  in,  which  thwart  the 
will  of  the  people  and  help  the  plu- 
tocracy, 116-117;  reform  of  legisla- 
tive methods  in,  315. 

House  ownership,  decrease  in  individual, 
and  deductions  therefrom,  220-221. 

Housing  conditions,  improvement  in, 
212-213. 


Icaria,  communistic  experiment  at,  73. 

Illiteracy,  statistics  of,  in  America,  227. 

Immigrants,  leaders  of  the  democracy 
not  to  originate  among  the  recent, 
180. 

Immigration,  effect  of,  on  conquest  of 
American  continent,  29 ;  statistics 
of,  29  n. ;  the  national  conscious- 
ness in  part  a  result  of,  65 ;  effect  of 
unrestricted,  on  the  native  laborer's 
condition,  68-69 ;  an  aid  to  the 
trust  against  its  employees,  91 ; 
advisability  of  further  restriction  of, 
346-347. 

Imprisonment  for  debt  in  early  America, 
11-12,  17. 

Income  taxation,  266,  296,  314. 


364 


INDEX 


Indentured  servants  in  our  original 
democracy,  9. 

Indifference,  the  negative  force  of,  in  the 
democratic  movement  as  in  woman's 
suffrage,  271-272 ;  antagonism  pref- 
erable to,  272  n. 

Individualism :  the  keynote  of  the  de- 
mocracy of  1829, 20-21 ;  the  subjuga- 
tion of,  by  the  financier  and  the 
trust,  33-35;  causes  of  the  distinc- 
tive American  quality,  36 ;  origins 
of,  in  Massachusetts  and  the  North, 
36-37;  opening  of  a  new  era  for, 
with  opening  of  the  back  country, 
37-38 ;  the  pioneer  the  most  repre- 
sentative type  of,  38-39  ;  the  spirit 
of,  in  the  factory  builder,  town 
boomer,  promoter,  trust  manipula- 
tor, etc.,  39 ;  tokens  of,  shown  in  a 
certain  American  magnificence,  40- 
41 ;  another  side  shown  in  our  illimi- 
table optimism,  41-42  ;  having  as  a 
corollary  the  quality  of  tolerance, 
42;  highest  expression  of,  found  in 
private  business  and  the  quest  of 
money,  43-44;  riotous  career  of, 
applied  to  business,  44;  logical 
conclusion  of,  in  the  rebate,  45; 
sequence  of  an  untrammeled,  found 
in  an  unprincipled  code  of  business 
morals,  45 ;  competition  and,  45 ; 
still  exists  in  the  monopolist,  48; 
and  in  the  little  dealer  also,  but  in 
subdued  form,  49-50;  how  the 
American  government  was  planned 
to  strengthen,  52-54;  the  connec- 
tion between  the  slum  and,  71-72; 
early  protests  against  the  wanton 
spirit  of,  72 ;  moral,  religious,  and 
communistic  movements  directed 
against,  72-73  ;  monopoly  age  suc- 
ceeds the  era  of,  74 ;  the  new  plutoc- 
racy the  representative  of  the  old 
individualism,  74 ;  in  the  social  pro- 
gram of  the  plutocracy,  146-148; 
the  insensible  passing  from,  to  a 
new  social  ideal,  160-161 ;  distribu- 
tion of  taxes  from  the  viewpoint  of, 
162-163 ;  approach  of,  toward  the- 
ory of  a  democratic  socialization 
of  industry  and  of  life,  189. 

Industrial  autonomy,  281  n.,  288,  289. 

Industrial   program   of   the   democracy, 
276  ff. 

Industries,  socialization  of.  See  Social- 
ization of  industries. 

Industry,  government  regulation  of,  276- 


277,  278-279,  283,  284-285,  286- 
288 ;  vast  scope  of  possible  govern- 
ment regulation  of,  291-292;  the 
trade-union  an  agency  of  the  de- 
mocracy's program  for,  292. 

Inheritance  taxation,  266,  296,  314. 

Initiative,  the,  306-310;  a  constitu- 
tional, recommended,  318. 

Insurance  by  the  government  of  citizens' 
life  and  health,  323-324. 

Insurgency,  Congressional,  merely  a 
symptom,  5. 

Intellectual  level  of  democratic  striving, 
223-233. 

Interstate  Commerce  Commission,  ac- 
tivities of,  290-291. 

Investment,  the  modern  revolution  in, 
87-88. 


Jackson,  Andrew,  regime  of,  18. 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  15  n. ;  election  to 
presidency,  17 ;  philosophy  of  Adam 
Smith  compared  with  that  of,  52. 

Juvenile  courts  as  a  symptom  of  prog- 
ress, 338-339. 


Keith,  B.  F.,  quoted,  219  n. 
Kings,  metempsychosis  of,  265  n. 
Kuczynski,  R.  R.,  cited,  174  n. 


Large-scale  production,  one  source  of 
vast  fortunes  found  in,  82 ;  perma- 
nence and  steady  advance  of,  84- 
85 ;  the  regulation  of,  as  to  owner- 
ship, stock  issues,  prices,  wages,  etc., 
a  present  necessity,  94 ;  in  the 
industrial  program  of  the  democ- 
racy, 281  ff. 

Leisure,  America  poverty  of,  333-334. 

Leroy-Beaulieu,  Paul,  cited,  177  n. 

Levasseur,  Emile,  cited,  174  n. 

Levels  of  democratic  striving  below 
which  the  masses  must  not  fall,  207- 
208,  209  ff. 

Liberty,  fears  for,  under  a  socialized 
democracy,  353-354. 

Libraries,  development  of,  and  effects, 
231. 

Life,  government  conservation  of,  320- 
326. 

Life  insurance  figures,  deductions  from, 
220. 


INDEX 


365 


Liquor  traffic,  control  of,  an  illustration 
of  difficulty  of  socializing  con- 
sumption, 331  n. 

Livestock,  wealth  of  United  States  in, 
204. 

Louisiana,  cession  of,  and  effect  on 
American  life,  26-27. 


M 


Machinery,  conquest  of  world  by,  32. 

McMaster,  J.  B.,  cited,  9 ;   quoted,  10. 

Magazines,  the  status  of,  in  plutocratic 
America,  133-134;  furnish  one 
proof  of  the  rise  and  diffusion  of 
wealth,  224;  figures  of  growth  of, 
231  n. 

Magnificence,  quality  of,  as  showing 
American  individualism,  40-41. 

Malthusian  theory,  355-356. 

Marshall,  John,  16. 

Marx,  Karl,  171,  181  n. ;  the  absolute 
socialism  of,  171-178. 

Maryland,  the  suffrage  in  early,  9. 

Massachusetts,  property  qualification 
for  voting  in  early,  9 ;  influence  of 
early  settlers  in,  on  the  nation's 
destinies,  36-37. 

"  Mere  physical  efficiency,"  line  of,  210. 

Merriam,  C.  Edward,  quoted,  299. 

Mexico  an  example  of  a  democracy  on 
paper,  12  n. 

Millionaires,  origins  of,  79  ff.  See  Plu- 
tocracy. 

Milwaukee,  socialists  of,  258. 

Mineral  wealth  of  United  States,  204 ; 
what  national  control  of,  would 
mean  to  the  democracy,  266. 

Money,  omnipotence  of,  in  America,  43- 
44. 

Monopoly,  age  of,  succeeds  to  era  of 
individualism,  64,  74 ;  a  chief 
source  of  American  fortunes,  82- 
83 ;  permanence  and  steady  in- 
crease of,  84-85 ;  state  intervention 
in,  according  to  program  of  democ- 
racy, 282-283  ;  choice  lies  between 
government  monopolies  and  private, 
instead  of  between  government 
monopolies  and  competition,  283. 

Monopoly  values  as  illustrated  by  rail- 
road rights  of  way  into  cities,  268- 
269. 

Mormons,  the,  30 ;  religion  of,  at  vari- 
ance ^ith  American  individualism, 
73. 

Municipal  ownership,  285  n. 


N 


Negro,  an  illustration  of  the  point  that 
leaders  of  democracy  are  not  to 
spring  from  the  most  indigent,  180  ; 
democracy's  problem  in  the,  342- 
346. 

Negro  suffrage,  question  of,  302-303. 

Nether  world,  problem  for  democracy 
to  face  in  the,  335-342. 

New  England,  evolution  of  the  national 
spirit  from,  37. 

New  Hampshire,  early  limitations  on 
suffrage  in,  9. 

New  Jersey,  property  qualification  for 
voting  in  early,  9. 

Newspapers,  the  plutocracy  and,  121- 
125 ;  responsibility  of  the  public  for 
many  bad  qualities  of,  127-128; 
one  reason  for  so-called  deteriora- 
tion of,  in  the  literacy  of  the  unedu- 
cated, 227  n. ;  stupendous  growth 
of,  231. 

New  York,  property  qualification  for 
voting  in  early,  9. 

Neymarck,  Alfred,  cited,  177  n. 

North  Carolina,  suffrage  in  early,  9. 


Ochlocracy,  the  fear  of  an,  350. 

Oklahoma,  opening  of,  for  settlement, 
31. 

Opportunity,  democratic  policies  tend- 
ing toward  equality  of,  320-334. 

Optimism  as  a  sign  of  our  American 
individualism,  41-42. 

Overpopulation,  the  threat  of,  in  a 
socialized  democracy,  355-356. 


Panama  Canal,  significance  of  nation's 
ability  to  pay  for,  206;  construc- 
tion of,  is  an  illustration  of  an  effi- 
ciently conducted  public  undertak- 
ing, 312. 

Parasitic  trades,  reform  of,  325-326. 

Parcels  post,  the,  284. 

Party.     See  Political  parties. 

Party  platforms,  democracy's  industrial 
program  outlined  in,  277-278. 

Patten,  Simon  N.,  tribute  to,  191  n. 

Penology,  the  new,  340-342. 

Per  capita  wealth  of  United  Kingdom 
and  of  United  States,  201  n. 

Pinchot,  Gifford,  quoted,  285. 


366 


INDEX 


Plutocracy,  the  typical  class  in  the  age 
of  monopoly,  74 ;  viewed  as  the 
price  America  is  paying  for  the 
necessary  reorganization  of  her 
affairs,  76-77;  analysis  and  origins 
of  the  undeniably  existent  American 
plutocracy,  78-84;  character  of 
men  who  compose,  90-91 ;  in  the 
summing-up  is  based  on  the  sup- 
port of  small  investors  and  the 
masses,  93 ;  maintains  itself  because 
as  a  nation  we  do  not  know  what  to 
do,  93-94;  the  weight  of,  thrown 
against  measures  of  regulation  of 
large-scale  productive  agencies,  95; 
corruption  the  natural  weapon  of 
the,  96;  present  political  solidarity 
of  the  interests  which  compose  the, 
106 ;  adherence  and  loyalty  of  the 
people  to  the  federal  Constitution 
the  strongest  support  of  the,  107- 
108 ;  the  Supreme  Court  as  a  pillar 
of  the,  108-113;  congressional  aids 
of  the,  116-117;  the  whole  govern- 
mental system  in  favor  of  the,  117; 
general  effect  on  legislators  and 
parties  of  the  plutocracy  in  politics, 
117-118;  final  appeal  of  the,  must 
be  to  the  moral  judgment  of  the 
people,  119-120;  control  of  news 
columns  and  editorial  pages  of  news- 
papers by,  121-124;  circumscrip- 
tion of  influence  of,  on  the  press  by 
the  readers  of  newspapers,  128-131 ; 
the  magazines  and  the,  133-134 ; 
must  in  the  end  rest  its  case  on  the 
truth,  137-138;  defense  of  the,  on 
ground  of  efficiency,  139  ff . ;  in- 
equalities in  distribution  of  wealth 
an  answer  to  the  efficiency  argument 
of,  144-146 ;  the  taint  in  the  social 
program  of  the,  of  estimating 
results  according  to  profits,  147- 
148;  viewed  as  merely  the  cleaner 
of  our  house  industrial,  political, 
and  socio-psychological,  149 ;  lack 
of  understanding  on  part  of,  of  true 
modern  social  conditions,  152; 
replies  of,  to  socialism  and  the  new 
democracy,  153-154 ;  penniless 
plutocrats,  dream-millionaires,  who 
back  up  the,  154 ;  the  program  of, 
is  making  a  democratic  revolt 
inevitable,  155;  question  of  the 
permanence  of  the,  156-157;  not 
as  yet  a  unit,  242 ;  grounds  of  lack 
of  solidarity,  242-243;    analysis  of 


the  democracy's  antagonism  to, 
244-249 ;  frantic  competitive  con- 
sumption for  which  pace  is  set  by 
the,  246-247;  some  wild  threats 
of  the,  to  advancing  democracy, 
265 ;  possible  use  of  race  hatred  by, 
344. 

Poisons,  prohibition  of  sale  of,  viewed  as 
an  expression  of  socialization,  289- 
290. 

Political  level  of  democratic  striving, 
233-234. 

Political  parties,  not  contemplated  by 
"the  Fathers,"  55;  inevitability  of, 
because  of  weakness  of  the  govern- 
ment, 55-56 ;  use  and  even  neces- 
sity of,  60 ;  are  the  main  channel 
through  which  political  corruption 
flows,  104  ;  root  of  deterioration  of, 
was  money,  105;  outlines  of 
democracy's  industrial  program  in 
platforms  of,  277-278;  control  of, 
the  very  beginning  of  political 
democracy,  298;  progress  in  legal 
regulation  of,  299. 

Politicians,  appearance  of,  in  the  Ameri- 
can democracy,  55-56;  character 
of,  as  business  men,  56-57 ;  growth 
of  power  of,  with  growth  of  wealth 
and  population,  57-58;  process  of 
strengthening  and  securing  their 
position  by,  60 ;  undoubtedly  have 
their  place,  60 ;  inability  of  the 
free  American  people  to  free  itself 
from,  62-63. 

Politics,  nation-wide  spread  of  corrup- 
tion in,  99-100 ;  trust  methods 
applied  to,  by  plutocracy,  106-107. 

Population,  increase  in,  the  demand  of 
the  despot  rather  than  the  demo- 
crat, 320-321 ;  effect  of  a  socialized 
democracy  on  rate  of  growth  of, 
355-357. 

Post  office  statistics,  232. 

Poverty,  of  earlier  social  world  con- 
trasted with  wealth  of  modern,  191- 
193 ;  the  overpopulation  theory  of 
explanation  of,  194;  the  disequi- 
librium between  present-day,  and 
social  surplus,  197-200;  of  Euro- 
pean countries  compared  with  Amer- 
ica, 201-202  ;  changes  in  character 
of  American,  221  n. ;  sickness  and 
death  due  to,  321,  325. 

Poverty  line,  the,  209-210. 

President,  election  of,  originally  removed 
from  the  people,  14. 


INDEX 


367 


Press,  the  plutocracy  and  the,  121  ff. ; 
influence  of  plutocracy  over,  through 
business  reasons,  122-124 ;  the 
general  tone  of,  influenced  by  the 
plutocracy,  125;  responsibility  of 
the  public  for  many  bad  qualities 
of  the,  127-128,  231  n. 

Prices,  government  regulation  of,  293  n. 

Profits,  negation  of,  not  implied  by  de- 
mocracy's industrial  program,  280. 

Proletariat,  Engels'  definition  of  the, 
172  n. 

Pseudo-trusts,  85  n. 

Publicity,  desirability  of,  in  business, 
294. 

Public  opinion,  the  plutocracy  and, 
121  ff . ;  plutocracy's  control  of, 
by  no  means  complete,  135-136 ; 
breadth  and  general  coherence  of,  in 
the  United  States,  136-137;  seeks 
to  become  the  ruling  power,  137; 
opportunity  for  creation  of,  in  cities, 
232. 

Public  service  enterprises  in  American 
cities,  285  n. 

Punishments  for  crime  in  early  America, 
11-12. 


Q 


Qualifications  for  voting  and  for  office- 
holding  in  the  American  democracy 
of  1776,  9-10. 


R 


Race  problem,  danger  residing  in  failure 
to  grapple  and  solve,  344-345. 

Railroad  passes,  effect  of  prohibition  of, 
on  corruption,  301. 

Railroads,  effect  on  America  of  advent 
of,  28;  unification  of  the  nation 
and  its  territory  by,  31 ;  combina- 
tion of,  and  capital,  84-85 ;  sta- 
tistics concerning,  205 ;  value  of 
monopoly  privileges  illustrated  by, 
268-269 ;  progress  in  government 
regulation  of,  276,  290-291. 

Rebate,  the,  viewed  as  the  individualistic 
spirit  carried  to  its  logical  conclu- 
sion, 45-46. 

Recall,  the,  305-306. 

Redemptioners  in  original  democracy,  9. 

Referendum,  the,  306-310;  a  constitu- 
tional, 318. 

Reforming*  movements  in  America,  72- 
73. 


Reorganization,  the  plutocratic,  74-77. 

Representation,  proportional,  within  the 
States,  316. 

Restrictions  on  suffrage  and  office-hold- 
ing in  early  America,  9-10. 

Rowntree,  B.  Seebohm,  quoted  regarding 
the  "mere  physical  efficiency"  line, 
210. 


Savings  bank  deposits,  significance  of 
increase  in  (since  1858),  219-220. 

Schmoller,  Gustav,  cited,  175  n. 

Schools,  figures  concerning  American, 
229-230 ;  need  of  improved  methods 
in,  329.     See  Education. 

Secrecy  an  element  in  corporation 
methods,  87-90 ;  arguments  pro  and 
con,  294. 

Semidemocrats,  utilization  of,  by  the 
democracy,  263. 

Senate,  national,  14. 

Senators,  direct  election  of,  304. 

Shafroth,  John  F.,  quoted,  117. 

Sherman  Law,  the,  94. 

Sinclair,  Upton,  "The  Jungle"  by,  178- 
179. 

Slavery,  retarding  effect  of,  on  attain- 
ment of  true  democracy,  9,  21. 

Slum,  the  American,  2,  4;  coming  of, 
and  causes,  69-71 ;  merely  the 
reverse  of  the  daring  optimism 
which  had  conquered  the  continent, 
71-72 ;  democracy's  problem  in  the, 
335-342. 

Smith,  Adam,  economic  philosophy  of, 
enunciated  in  the  "Wealth  of 
Nations,"  52 ;  quoted  on  taxation 
from  the  individualistic  point  of 
view,  162. 

Smith,  J.  Allen,  quoted  on  congressional 
committees,  116. 

Social  democracy,  birth  and  evolution  of 
the  new,  158-161 ;  the  difference 
between  the  Jeffersonian  and  Jack- 
sonian  democracy  and,  161-162 ; 
a  revolutionary  movement  per  se, 
165-167;  inevitable  reactions  ex- 
cited, 167 ;  the  theory  of  attainment 
by  a  class  war,  169  ff. ;  leaders  of, 
not  to  spring  from  the  most  indigent, 
as  illustrated  by  the  Negro  and 
recent  immigrants,  180 ;  new  impetus 
given  to  action  of,  by  growth  of 
social  surplus,  199.  See  Democ- 
racy. 


368 


INDEX 


Socialism,  105;  arguments  of,  against 
plutocracy,  and  vice  versa,  153  ;  "ab- 
solute socialism,"  171-177;  naive 
theory  of  disappearance  of  so-called 
"menace  of  socialism,"  and  why 
erroneous,  189  n. 

Socialists,  diminution  of  the  class  war 
theory  among,  181-182  ;  strength  of, 
in  Germany  and  in  other  countries, 
182 ;  extent  of  surrender  of  class 
war  doctrine  by,  186  n. ;  adoption 
by,  of  a  theory  of  a  democratic 
socialization  of  industry  and  of  life, 
189. 

Socialization  of  industries,  a  part  of 
democracy's  program,  276  ff. ;  dif- 
ferent degrees  of,  in  different  indus- 
tries, 279-280;  minute  rules  and 
regulations  not  necessary  for,  280 ; 
does  not  involve  the  negation  of 
profits,  280;  analogy  between  the 
trust  and,  281 ;  industrial  autonomy 
an  opposition  theory,  281  n. ;  ne- 
cessity of  high  industrial  efficiency 
under,  because  of  high  cost  of 
maintenance,  287;  expression  al- 
ready given  to  socialization  in 
prohibition  of  sale  of  poisons, 
alcoholic  beverages,  of  gambling, 
of  firecrackers,  etc.,  289-290;  just 
distribution  of  the  product  of 
industry  an  object  of,  294-297; 
socialization  of  wealth  by  taxation, 
295-297  (see  Taxation);  of  the 
business  of  health-keeping,  320- 
326 ;  of  consumption,  320,  330-334. 

Social  reform,  the  plutocracy's  program 
of,  143,  320-347. 

Social  surplus,  definition  of  phrase,  191 ; 
ignorance  and  poverty  anachronistic 
in  view  of  existence  of  a,  191  ff . ; 
creation  of,  by  steam  and  machinery, 
in  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  cen- 
turies, 193-194;  the  opportunity 
for  a  socialized  democracy  created 
by,  194,  195 ;  in  the  beginning  of 
era  of,  held  by  men  who  had  to 
share  it  with  the  masses,  195-196; 
advantages  of,  passed  on  indirectly 
to  the  working  classes,  196 ;  effect 
of  the  accumulation  of,  on  the 
inevitable  democracy,  196-197 ; 
disequilibrium  between  social  wealth 
and  existing  social  misery,  197- 
200 ;  inevitableness  of  the  success 
of  the  popular  struggle  for,  reasoned 
from  the  success  to  date,  200-201 ; 


statistics  of  national  wealth,  203- 
205 ;  relation  of  the  three  levels  — 
economic,  intellectual,  and  political 
—  of  democratic  striving  to  the, 
207-208;  a  common  interest  in  an 
element  of  solidarity  among  the 
democracy,  244,  249-250;  absorp- 
tion of  undue  share  of,  by  unregu- 
lated monopolies,  282-283. 

Solidarity,  complexity  of  conception  of, 
241-242;  lack  of,  among  the  plu- 
tocracy, 242-243  ;  chief  elements  of, 
among  the  democracy,  244. 

South  Carolina,  restrictions  on  suffrage 
in  early,  9 ;  qualifications  for  office- 
holding,  9-10. 

Spargo,  John,  quoted,  183. 

Spending  power  of  the  masses,  216-220. 

Spoils  system,  inauguration  of,  with 
Jackson's  election,  18;  political 
parties  fortified  but  debauched  by, 
67. 

Standardization,  of  industry  by  the  plu- 
tocracy, 75-77,  82-85 ;  as  a  maker 
of  American  fortunes,  82-83 ;  of 
plutocracy's  control  of  politics,  97- 
107 ;  of  plutocracy's  control  of  the 
press,  126-127. 

Standard  of  living,  raising  of,  by  lower- 
ing birth  rate,  320. 

Standard  Oil  Company,  84,  140  n. 

Steffens,  Lincoln,  quoted  on  political 
corruption,  99-100. 

Stocks,  position  of  the  small  investor  in, 
88-90. 

Submerged,  problem  of  the,  335-342. 

Suffrage,  early  limitations  on,  in  different 
states,  9-10 ;  woman  and  Negro, 
302-303. 

Supreme  Court,  undemocratic  character 
of,  14  ;  interpretation  of  the  Consti- 
tution by,  109 ;  unlimited  power  of, 
109-111;  reasons  for  favoring  pluto- 
cratic cause  rather  than  the  demo- 
cratic, 112;  should  not  be  shielded 
from  criticism,  113;  hope  of  the 
democracy  in  the  sensitiveness  of, 
to  the  popular  will,  317-318- 

Switzerland,  the  recall  in,  306  n. ;  con- 
stitutional amendments  in,  318. 


Taft,  William  H.,  quoted  on  criticism 
of  courts,  113  n. 

Taxation  :  from  the  individualistic  view- 
point, 162-163 ;   use  of,  in  the  new 


INDEX  369 


socialized  democracy,  to  accomplish 
social  ends,   163-164;    socialization 
of  wealth  by,  295-297. 
I  Tax  reform  as  a  means  to  the  democratic 

end,  276,  277. 
1   Telephone  development,  232. 
I   Theatrical  Trust  and  the  free  expression 
of  opinion,  134. 

Tobacco  Trust,  86. 

Tocqueville,  Alexis  de,  on  the  American 
democracy,  19-20. 

Tolerance  as  a  corollary  of  American 
optimism,  42. 

Town-meeting,  expression  of  the  primitive 
democratic  spirit  in  the,  7-8. 

Trade-union,  improvement  of  labor 
conditions  by  the,  175 ;  a  repre- 
sentative and  powerful  agency  of 
democracy  in  attaining  its  program, 
292-293  ;  problems  and  possibilities 
of  the,  in  relation  to  men  incapable 
of  earning  union  wages,  337 ;  must 
always  be  open  at  the  bottom,  338. 

Tradition,  influence  of,  in  democratic 
experiments,  255. 

Transportation,  statistics  of,  205. 

Trust,  advent  of  the,  32-33  ;  typical  of  a 
new  period  in  America,  64;  the 
typical  expression  of  the  plutocratic 
reorganization  following  the  era  of 
individualism,  75 ;  characteristic 
features  of  the,  75-76 ;  was  a  neces- 
sity for  the  reorganization  of  Ameri- 
can affairs,  76 ;  at  the  same  time  a 
misfortune,  76-77 ;  certain  indus- 
tries not  susceptible  to  the  trust  pro- 
cess, 83 ;  increase  in  growth  and 
number  of  trusts,  84-85 ;  acts  as  a 
unit  against  unorganized  masses, 
85-86 ;  power  over  consumers  and 
employees,  86;  treatment  of  sur- 
viving competitors,  86-87 ;  rule  of 
the  magnate  over  the,  87 ;  uncon- 
trolled business  methods  of  the,  and 
position  of  small  investor  in,  87- 
90;  aids  of  the,  in  our  protective 
tariff,  our  internal  free  trade,  un- 
restricted immigration,  and  our 
increasing  national  wealth,  91  ; 
impossibility  of  setting  limits  to 
future  development  of  trusts,  91- 
92 ;  the  question  of  what  to  do 
about  the,  93-95 ;  methods  of  the, 
applied  by  the  plutocracy  to  politics, 
106-107;  comparison  drawn  be- 
tween the  feudal  despotism  and  the, 
140  n. ;  analogy  between  socializa- 
2b 


tion  and  the,  281;  desirability  of 
government  chaperonage  of,  286  n. ; 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of, 
in  comparison  with  government 
ownership,  287-288. 


U 


Unearned  increment  from  property 
invested  with  a  public  interest, 
reversion  of,  to  the  government,  295. 

Union  Pacific  Railroad,  31,  64. 

United  Cigar  Stores  Company,  86,  248. 

United  States,  per  capita  wealth  in, 
201  n. ;  statistics  of  present  wealth 
of,  203-205. 

United  States  Steel  Corporation,  84,  92. 

Universities,  though  trust-endowed,  may 
teach  democracy,  135. 

Utopias,  difference  between  ideal,  and 
the  new  democracy,  354-355. 


Vaudeville  artists'  salaries,  219  n. 

Violence,  undesirability  and  unlikelihood 
of,  in  the  tactics  of  the  democracy, 
256-259 ;  previous  resorts  to,  in 
Colorado  and  elsewhere,  259  n. 

Virginia,  voting  in  early,  9. 

W 

Wages,  the  steady  rise  in,  174-175 ; 
comparison  of  American  and  Euro- 
pean, 215 ;  ratio  of  increase  in,  to 
increase  in  cost  of  living,  221-222; 
adjustment  of,  to  prices  helps  to 
bring  forces  of  democracy  into 
unity,  250-253 ;  regulation  of,  by 
government,  293  n. 

Waste,  avoidance  of,  as  an  argument  for 
the  plutocracy,  142,  143.  See  Effi- 
ciency. 

Wealth,  inequalities  in  distribution  of, 
144-146;  democracy's  hope  based 
upon  the  steady  increase  in,  191 ; 
sketch  of  changes  which  have  oc- 
curred in  the  world's  wealth,  191- 
198 ;  of  America  as  compared  with 
European  countries,  201-202 ;  sta- 
tistics of,  of  our  country,  203-205 ; 
advance  of  the  average  citizen  in, 
210-215 ;  diffusion  of,  as  shown  by 
statistics  of  consumption  of  goods, 
216-220;  education  implied  by, 
226.     See  also  Social  surplus. 


370 


INDEX 


Woman's  suffrage  movement,  indiffer- 
ence the  chief  enemy  of,  272; 
extent  of,  302. 

Women  employed,  statistics  of,  at  home 
and  abroad,  216  n. ;  regulation  of 
hours  of  labor  for,  340. 

Women's  Trade  Union  League,  340. 


Working  classes,  improvement  in  condi- 
tion of,  since  1848,  174-176;  com- 
parison as  to  economic  status  of 
American  and  European,  215-216; 
increase  in  wages  compared  with 
increase  in  cost  of  living,  221-222. 

Working  day,  length  of,  150,  333,  340. 


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RBCORJUL    21984 


a: 


LD21A-60m-6,'69 
(J9096sl0)476-A-32 


Genera!  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


(&S&W& 


1  *  s. 


cpydutgr 


JL 

U.C.BtRttUU«»»«>B 


